After the Fall
by ThessalyMc
Summary: Multi-chapter fic. John's life post-RF, beginning 12 hours after the Fall, continuing to a realization 6 months later, and on to the reunion. 20 chapters total. Now up -chapter 20: the reunion.
1. Chapter 1: 12 hours After

**A/N: All the cookies to Sevenpercent!**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine.**

John's pillow was wet against his cheek. For a moment, he couldn't think why. Then he could, and wished that he hadn't.

He felt as though a building had fallen on him, crushed him. His only physical injury was a moderate concussion, but the pain that ripped through him made him gasp aloud. He fought to control his breathing, to stop the moisture that continued to leak from his still-closed eyes. He tried to bring his hands up to scrub at his face.

One of his hands was restrained.

He opened his eyes in surprise, blinking furiously at the bright lights. Wiping his face with his free hand, he ignored the throb in his head and craned his neck to take in his surroundings.

He was in a hospital bed, handcuffed to the bed rail. A hysterical giggle forced its way out as he laid his head back on the pillows.

He heard a distinct clicking sound from the hallway outside, followed by a low voice raised in protest. There was a scraping sound from the far corner of the room. John turned his head, stifling a groan at the pain the movement caused. He caught sight of a police constable rising from a chair, face puzzled. John didn't have time to think further on the constable's presence as the door to his room opened and a second, younger constable entered, following a woman whose high heels rang sharply on the floor.

"Remove his restraint, now," the woman said, eyes meeting John's for a moment before they looked back down to the phone in her hand.

"He's a fugitive, Miss. I can't ..." the younger constable protested, looking anxiously to where his partner was making a quick call on his mobile, speaking in low tones.

"He was a hostage, Constable, forced to run from police custody."

"But he assaulted ..." the constable began, shifting from foot to foot, shooting a glance at his partner.

"No charges have been filed. Uncuff him. Immediately."

The young constable looked uncertain, but his partner pulled the phone away from his ear with a shrug. He nodded unhappily and pulled a key from his pocket, unlocking the handcuffs. John pulled his hand free, rubbing at his wrist. He watched as the younger constable turned back to face the woman, who barely glanced up from her mobile to give him an insincere smile before looking back down again, fingers texting furiously. The older constable moved toward the door holding it open and looking back for his partner, who stood rooted to the spot, seemingly waiting for a dismissal. After a moment the woman looked up again, looking at the disconcerted constable with amusement, tilted her head to the door and said 'Bye.'

Another giggle escaped John as the constable fled the room, hurrying after his partner. The woman looked up at him and grinned in response. John laughed again, an edge of hysteria creeping back in. He struggled, fighting to calm himself. The woman turned her eyes back to her phone, but he knew that her attention was still on him. She was giving him time to regain control. He was grateful.

"Who are you?" John gasped out, trying regulate his breathing.

She focused on him immediately. He could see her gaze sharpen with concern.

"No, no," he corrected, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I know who you are. I meant … Who are you today? What name should I use?"

"What name did I use last time?" she asked

John wondered if this was a test of his mental state, or if she really changed names so frequently that she couldn't remember. Maybe it was both.

"Anthea."

She smiled. John decided that it had been a test.

"Anthea it is, then."

John nodded, and regretted it. He groaned, bringing both hands up to press the heels to his forehead. After a moment he put his hands down and shifted, trying to sit up. He saw Anthea watching him with curiosity and concern, but she made no move to help him.

"Thanks for that," he said waving his hand toward the door to indicate the departed constable and handcuffs when he managed to pull himself upright.

"Of course," she replied.

"I imagine that he'll be back, though, to slap the cuffs on again when the Chief files the paperwork for the charges. Still," he slid off the bed and closed his eyes tightly against a wave of dizziness and nausea, "there's enough time for me to see him," he opened his eyes to meet Anthea's gaze. "I need to see him."

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Watson, but that will not be possible."

"It is," he insisted, biting out the words. "Take me to him."

"He's gone."

"I know he's … gone," John shouted, then sagged against the bed. "I saw him fall. I saw … there was so much blood. He had no pulse," he looked up at Anthea, his expression pleading. "I need to see him."

"Doctor Watson," she said gently, "you were combative when you were brought in, resisting treatment. They sedated you. It's been … well. It's just gone eight now. Nearly twelve hours. While you were unconscious, the body was identified by Doctor Molly Hooper, and has already been claimed. He's not here."

John's legs buckled. He slid to the floor, landing awkwardly on his hip. Anthea stepped closer, her hand closing on his shoulder, keeping him from slumping farther down.

"I don't believe the Chief will be getting around to filing charges," she said. "He's been reminded that his lack of oversight on the conduct of his officers, and their use of civilian consultants, would become public knowledge if he pursued a punitive course of action. A punch to the nose is far better than the slap on the wrist he'd receive in that instance."

Under other circumstances, John thought he might be amused.

"Thank you, Mycroft," John said, then continued bitterly, "Your boss is a minion of Satan, if not the man himself."

"My boss just lost his little brother."

"He's responsible for putting his little brother on that roof! Backing him into that corner, where he thought this was his only way out!" John spat, glaring up at her, ignoring the throbbing of his head.

"Do you really think he doesn't know that, Doctor Watson?" Anthea asked softly. "I assure you, there is no punishment you can think up for him that is worse than what he's doing to himself right now."

"That's a theory that needs testing."

John read disappointment on Anthea's face, but it vanished quickly. He lowered his head into his hands.

"What do I do now?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"They want to keep you the rest of the night for observation. We've arranged a car for you for tomorrow morning."

"That's not really what I meant."

"I know," Anthea replied, tugging lightly on his shoulder, indicating that he should stand up.

John climbed unsteadily to his feet and allowed Anthea to push him back onto the bed.

"Rest now, Doctor Watson. Mrs. Hudson will need you. We'll let you know when arrangements are made."

John didn't say anything as he laid back down. He closed his eyes, heard Anthea's soft sigh and then the sharp clack of her high heels as she crossed to the door.

"I'm sorry for your loss, John," she said as she turned off the lights and left the room.

He wasn't tired, but he suddenly found that he was exhausted, and let the darkness of grief and sleep swallow him.


	2. Chapter 2: 24 hours after

**A/N: Chocolate and cookies for Sevenpercent and kate221b!**

**Disclaimer: Still not mine, and I'm not going to bother saying so in future chapters**

It was half six the next morning when John was discharged. Anthea arrived in his room and asked him to follow her. It had been phrased as a polite request, but there was no question that he was expected to comply.

John just looked at her, slid off the bed on which he'd been sitting, and trailed along behind her. He didn't speak to her, and she'd said nothing more to him. Only the sound of their shoes on the floor – hers tapping confidently, his shuffling behind – accompanied their passage down the hall. He didn't ask questions when they headed down to the basement levels, past the morgue, to the black government car parked at the mortuary entrance.

He was distantly grateful for this arrangement. It spared him having to pass outside the front of the hospital – the spot on the pavement where they'd dragged him away from Sherlock's body – and also allowed him to avoid the crowd of reporters and photographers that he'd seen from his window, gathered outside the entrance in spite of the early hour, waiting for their opportunity to shout their questions to him and to steal pictures of his grief.

The driver opened the door, and John slid in after Anthea.

They drove in silence. Anthea was absorbed in her Blackberry, and John had no interest in … anything, really. He was angled toward the window, but couldn't manage to focus on the scenery slipping by.

Then they turned left.

"Anthea," John sighed, too exhausted to feel angry, "I do not want to see Mycroft."

"We're not going to see Mr. Holmes," she replied, not looking up.

"Well, we're not going to Baker Street, either."

"No."

John ran his hand through his hair, trying to pay attention to landmarks to see where they were, and where they might be going. He decided after a moment that he was too tired for any kind of logical thought, and sighed again in defeat.

"Right. Okay, then. Where are we going?"

"Your sister's house."

"Harry's house," John repeated. "Why?"

"There is a Yard team at Baker Street," Anthea answered, her eyes flicking up from her screen to see his expression as he took in the information.

John was silent, considering.

A Yard team at Baker Street. They would be tossing the flat, looking for evidence that Sherlock had been a fraud. Again, he felt too fatigued for anger. It would come, though, and he was distantly afraid of what might happen when it did.

"Why? What difference does it make now?"

"Reasonable doubt."

Oh. All the cases they'd worked on together. All the cases Sherlock had worked on in the years before John. The convictions were all now called into question.

John shook his head. The Yard team would not find any evidence that would endanger those convictions. There was none to be found.

"How long?"

"A few days. Once they finish cataloging and taking pictures ..."

"They won't find anything," John stated flatly, ignoring the niggling thought that Moriarty was more than capable of planting evidence.

"I know."

He nodded, almost relieved at her reassurance. Moriarty could not have planted anything in the flat without being seen by Mycroft's eyes and ears in the flat. The damage already done to Sherlock's reputation was enormous, but no further hits were coming. Sherlock was innocent, and nothing the Yard might find in the flat would suggest otherwise.

Anthea turned her attention back to her phone, and he turned to look out the window again, unseeing.

* * *

Harry greeted him at the door, trying to hide her hangover. John sighed. He had no energy left for disappointment. He knew that if he asked about it she'd blame last night's drinking on her worry for him, injured and grieving in hospital. He pointedly didn't ask, not giving her the chance to make excuses.

It was clear to John that Harry didn't know how to react in the face of his loss. There was something more to it, though, than just knowing that any words offered, no matter how sincere, felt empty. John realized, when he saw the newspaper sitting on the kitchen table, the leading article the one he'd confronted Mycroft over, that Harry was buying into the lie. She wanted to support him in his grief, but feared that he'd been taken in by Sherlock.

The coffee she handed him tasted like ashes in the face of her doubt.

"He wasn't, you know," he said, watching Harry bustle around the kitchen. "A fraud. He wasn't a fraud."

"Yeah," Harry replied.

Her agreement was hollow, noncommittal. John nodded to himself, saying nothing.

"I've got to go to work," Harry said after an awkward pause. "I'll be home around six. There's a set of towels for you in the bathroom. Make yourself at home."

"Thanks. I'll be out of your hair in a day or two."

"Stay as long as you need, John."

"Yeah," he responded, echoing her earlier statement in tone as well as in term.

She nodded, picked up her keys, and left. He stayed standing there for a long time.

* * *

The ringing doorbell shattered the silence. John sat on the couch, unable to remember having moved out of the kitchen, and not sure how much time had passed since Harry had gone. Long enough that the cup of coffee on the table in front of him had gone stone cold. He wondered who would be coming by at this hour. Not someone coming to see Harry – her friends would know her work hours. So, someone to see him, then. He climbed wearily to his feet and crossed the room.

John opened the door, then closed it again quickly. It was surprise that motivated him. Not anger, though he knew there was plenty of that buried somewhere - a good deal of it aimed directly at the woman on the other side of the door. But it was the absolute shock of seeing her there that caused his immediate reaction. Taking a deep breath, he reopened the door.

"Donovan."

"Doctor Watson," the woman replied.

John could see that she was uncomfortable, standing there with a duffel bag. There was some small amount of guilt in her stance and a touch of sadness, but a great deal more of anger and defiance. John wondered what Sherlock would have read in her.

"What do you want, Sally? Come here to rub it in? He's finally done what you said he would. There's a body on the ground, and he's responsible for putting it there."

"No," she answered, mouth and eyes hard. "Look, I haven't changed my mind about him. I still think he had something to do with that kidnapping, and might have had a hand in any number of other crimes. But this ... this isn't what I wanted. I wanted him to have his day in court."

"His day in court," John snorted. "He'd have won, you know."

"Your loyalty is utterly misplaced," she responded. "He was a psychopath, Doctor Watson. He didn't care about you."

"Right. He didn't care," John responded, thinking that it might be good that he was in shock, that he couldn't feel anything outside of an overwhelming sense of loss, and pain. If he'd been able to lay hands on his anger ... His voice, when he continued, was level. Calm. Dangerously soft. "Didn't care at all. Which is why he abandoned the investigation into that art theft ring to spend hours badgering the nurses the night I got stabbed. Why he didn't go home for four days while I was in hospital, even ignoring Lestrade's call to help investigate a locked room double homicide, making you bring him the photos rather than going to the crime scene himself."

He could see that his comment brought Sally up short. She'd been by the hospital to take his statement the day after the stabbing. The knife had gone through his bicep, doing blessedly little damage to the muscle, but nicking the brachial artery. Sherlock had abandoned the chase, stopping to apply pressure to John's wounds and call for an ambulance. He'd refused to be put off when the paramedics had tried to bar him from the vehicle for the ride to the hospital, and once it arrived, he'd pestered the nurses incessantly for updates while John was in surgery. When he'd been wheeled out, Sherlock had been waiting, installing himself in John's room with no thought spared for hospital visitor policy. He had paced the confines of John's room all night long, waiting for John to come out of the anaesthetic. Waiting to make sure John was fine. He'd been there when Sally had come for their statements. He'd ridden along in the ambulance again when John had been transferred to Bart's the next day, and had been there the day after that, in the same rumpled clothes, when Sally had come by with the crime scene photos. John had tried, several times, to send him home, but he had stayed, not going home until John could.

Sherlock had put John ahead of The Work. And Sally knew it.

"Just because he was an arrogant son of a bitch with a superiority complex to rival god, and no people skills to speak of, doesn't mean that he didn't _feel_, Donovan. And if he didn't express those feelings in a manner you would recognize – doesn't mean he didn't express them at all," John said, his tone growing heated as some of his anger bubbled up, but it faded quickly. He didn't have the energy to maintain it. "He wasn't a psychopath. Or a sociopath, no matter what label he tried to use to protect himself." He leaned heavily against the door frame. "Why are you here?"

"Here," she said roughly, thrusting the duffel into his hands. "It'll be another day or two before the team is done at Baker Street. Thought you might need a change of clothes."

"I ..." John began, then stopped. "That was … thoughtful of you. Thanks."

"Yeah, well. I didn't like him, and I think you're certifiable for … Dear god, the things you let him keep in your fridge" she said with obvious disgust, shaking her head, then continuing, "They've impounded your computers. And your case notes. If they find drugs -"

"They won't."

"How can you be so certain?"

"Because it was the drugs or me."

He watched her process that. It had never actually come to that ultimatum with Sherlock. It hadn't been necessary. Sherlock had known John's opinion on drugs, as well as knowing that having drugs in the flat after the doctor had moved in would have put his license to practice in jeopardy. It was an argument John had won without every having to say a word.

"I've got just one question for you, Sally," John said mildly. "If he'd been any other bloke, someone you didn't despise for being able to draw connections between facts you couldn't even see, would the circumstantial 'evidence' you think you found have been enough to bring him in for questioning?"

The defiance was back in her expression. John's gaze didn't waver. She spun round, ready to storm away.

"Wait, Sally," he said, putting the duffel down and reaching for the pen and paper on the entryway table. He scribbled a quick note and handed it to her. "Here."

"What's this?"

"Passwords. No doubt your tech guys would have figured mine out without any trouble – god knows Sherlock always managed no matter how often I changed it or how difficult I tried to make it. But that'll save them the trouble."

"And the other one is ..."

"Sherlock's. He knew I'd figured it out, but I don't think he ever changed it."

"You figured out Holmes' password?"

"I did," John confirmed.

"Why are you giving me this?" she asked, nonplussed.

"Because you won't find anything," John answered, conviction obvious in spite of his soft tone.

He met her gaze and held it. She shook her head at him, and he could read exasperation in the gesture.

"We'll let you know when you can go back to Baker Street."

"Try not to leave it in too big a mess."

"How would you tell the difference?" she asked, turning on her heel and walking away.

He closed the door.


	3. Chapter 3: 3 days After

**A/N: Many thanks to kate221b and Sevenpercent**

John shoved the drawer closed and pushed the button to start the wash. He'd been at Harry's for two days, and had reached the end of the duffel of clothing Sally Donovan had brought by in an uncharacteristic display of thoughtfulness. He set the machine to run the load on cold so that there would be hot water for Harry's shower, whenever she decided to drag herself out of bed. No telling when that would be, given that she didn't have to go in to work today.

It was Saturday. He'd been brought to Harry's house Thursday morning, the day after …

Harry had done her best to welcome him, giving words of support and encouragement – believing him without believing in Sherlock – a conundrum John had not yet been able to figure out, before heading off to work. She'd come home that night with cartons of takeaway, asking John to set the meal up while she got changed. When she joined him at the table she was dressed in track pants and a tee shirt, carrying two filled wine glasses, the stoppered wine bottle clutched under her arm.

John had sighed, but said nothing. He drank the first glass of wine, but declined a second. He'd gone to bed when she poured her third. Friday morning John had discovered not one, but two empty wine bottles in the recycling. Harry had greeted him cheerily, seemingly unaffected by the previous night's drinking. He had let it all slide, too exhausted from a night of tossing and turning, endlessly replaying the memory of Sherlock's fall.

That night she'd had a drink with dinner. He'd abstained. She'd had another drink after dinner. He didn't bother trying to pretend that she'd stopped drinking when he'd gone to bed. She didn't have work the following morning, and it was clear that she typically drank heavily on Friday nights. His presence there was not enough to change her habits.

He'd risen, Saturday morning, showered and changed. And realised that he didn't have another change of clothes.

Harry hadn't yet dragged herself out of bed when he'd lugged his arm-load of soiled laundry to her washing machine. Now finished setting the machine up to run he headed to the kitchen, ready for a cup of coffee and breakfast.

He was just adding coffee to the filter when Harry stumbled into the room, bleary eyed and obviously hungover. She grunted a greeting as she opened the fridge top pull out a carton of tomato juice.

"Breakfast?" he asked, his tone admonishing.

"God, no," she replied.

He nodded, turning to put bread in the toaster. Behind him he heard the sound of metal scraping against glass. He glanced back and saw Harry unscrewing the cap off a bottle of vodka, and tipping a generous double shot into her tomato juice before nearly dropping the bottle back on the worktop. She hissed at the noise, then squinted up at John. He watched as she recognized his stern disapproval, mentally shrugged, picked up the glass, half saluted him with it, and took a large drink.

John's guilt at not having been able to convince her to give up drinking, at not having said anything about it over the last two days, flashed over to anger. He wanted to yell at her. He wanted to pick up the bottle of vodka and throw it against the wall. He wanted to _rage_. A small voice in the back of his mind urged caution. He wanted to lash out, but his fury had other roots, and it wouldn't be fair to unload his anger with Sherlock, and Moriarty, and Mycroft, and – hell, the whole bloody world – on her.

He clamped his jaw shut, turning away and leaning heavily against the work top. He shook his head, fighting for control, his muscles so tight that his shoulder ached with it. He couldn't stay here, standing next to her. He'd say something, _do_ something … He turned around again, and saw her watching him with a serene gaze, utterly indifferent to his anger. He clenched his fists, then forced them back open, shaking his head.

"You selfish ..." he began, then stopped, not trusting himself to continue.

"Excuse me?" Harry asked, indignant and angry. "I'm offering you a place to stay while the police search your flat, comforting you over your bastard fraud of a flatmate, and you have the nerve to call me _selfish_?"

John felt absolutely incandescent with rage. He stood, rigidly, glaring at his sister, as she glared back at him, chin raised defiantly.

"Yes, Harry. Selfish. Making me watch you kill yourself. Thanks, but I've had more than enough of that. I will not stay to watch it. I can't. I'm done."

John turned on his heel and stalked angrily from the room. He grabbed his coat from the hook by the door and shrugged it on. Picking up his phone from the entryway table, he thrust it into his coat pocket, pulled the door open and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Harry's flat was four miles from Baker Street, on the other side of the Thames. John realised that his feet were taking him that way before he'd given thought to a destination.

John approached a pedestrian crossing, the light having just turned green. He was brought up short as it changed to red seconds later, the regular traffic cycle obviously interrupted. John looked around, catching sight of a CCTV camera on the opposite corner trained directly at him. He glared at it, squaring his shoulders, then huffed a resigned breath and gave a sharp nod.

Turning, he entered a cafe and joined the queue. He saw the car pull up outside before he'd made it to the front of the line.

A few moments later he was nodding to the driver as the man held the car door open, and then he slid into the back seat to greet Anthea.

"Not even three minutes. Do remind Mycroft that there is a difference between surveillance and stalking," he growled, then thrust a cup of coffee out to her. "Here. Didn't know how you take it, so you got black."

"Black is perfect," she said, taking the proffered cup and smiling her thanks. "We were already on our way to pick you up, Doctor Watson. The Yard team is finished at Baker Street."

John nodded, then turned to look out the window, watching the city flash by. He was no longer so blindingly furious, but he was angry, and well aware of it even through his grief and resignation. Better to avoid dealing with Anthea, and by extension, Mycroft, lest he lose control and let the rage out.

He could feel her attention on him, even as he refused to look in her direction. She gave a soft sigh. They rode in silence, until the car turned onto Baker Street fifteen minutes later.

"Mrs. Hudson is next door, with Mrs. Turner. She's been staying there since Wednesday. She'll be there now."

John nodded, saying nothing.

As the car pulled up to the kerb, John noticed a man leaning against a lamp post watching their approach. The man dug a phone out of his pocket, not taking his eyes off the car. As the car rolled to a stop, John didn't wait for the driver to open the door, climbing out quickly and going to knock on 225. He didn't have to turn to know that the man at the street lamp was still watching him, and was now talking on the phone, quietly, but with animation.

John scowled. He remembered the crowd of reporters gathered outside the hospital, and knew that they'd soon be descending on Baker Street. His anger flashed hot again, but he pushed it aside when the door in front of him opened and a broken looking Mrs. Hudson stood in before him.

"Oh, John," she whispered, reaching out.

John wrapped his landlady in his arms, ignoring both the paparazzi scout and Anthea, as the woman unlocked the door to 221 and waved in the driver, his hands filled with grocery bags.

"Come on, Mrs. Hudson. Let's go home and have a cuppa," John said, giving her shoulders a squeeze.

"Yes, dear. Let me just … I'll be … Oh, look at me. Such a mess. I'm sorry. I'll just get my bag and be right there."

"In your own time, Mrs. Hudson. I'll go put the kettle on, shall I?"

"Yes, thank you, dear. I'll just be a minute."

She gave him a quick squeeze, then pulled away to flash him a watery smile before heading back into 225, closing the door behind her. John stood there for a moment, then looked over to the paparazzi scout. The man had obviously finished his call and was now using his phone's camera app to take digital video of John's actions. He smirked at John's glare.

Before John was able to take a step in his direction, intent on serious bodily damage, a homeless drunk staggered by, stumbling into the scout and knocking his phone to the ground. There was a soft, yet distinctive pop as the screen broke. The scout was incensed, pushing the homeless man, who stumbled, tripped, and fell to the pavement. The paparazzi ignored the fallen man and reached for his phone, only to have it scooped up by Anthea's driver.

"Here you are, sir," the driver said politely, brushing the phone off and handing it back before opening the door for Anthea.

The scout stood, cursing, while Anthea slid into the car – sparing John a quick amused look as he helped the drunk to his feet. The homeless man tried to clap John on the arm and missed, stumbling off with slurred thanks. This close to him, John realised that something about the man was amiss. He was scruffy, his worn clothing dirty, but but not filthy. He smelled of day-old sweat and stale coffee and cigarettes – but he did _not_ smell of alcohol. At least a few of Sherlock's Homeless Network must still believe. Must still be keeping watch. John smiled a grim smile and turned back to the cursing scout.

"Bit of bad luck, there, mate," John remarked as the black car pulled away from the kerb, then he turned and headed into 221.

Once inside, John stood, staring at the entryway. His hand rose, seemingly of its own volition, to touch the wall where he and Sherlock had once stood, giggling, after running through the streets and across the rooftops of London, chasing a cab. He gasped quietly, his chest suddenly feeling achingly tight. He leaned heavily against the wall, fighting a sudden flash of vertigo. He shook his head slightly, breathing deeply until the dizziness passed and his chest loosened. His fingertips brushed the wall lightly as he stepped away and slowly began climbing the stairs.

The door leading from the landing to the kitchen was open. He moved inside, noting the grocery bags on the table as he reached for the kettle. After he'd clicked it on he opened the fridge and found it nearly bare. The Yard team had no doubt taken all of the various bits of human flesh Sherlock had kept for experimentation, leaving next to nothing on the shelves. He binned what remained without looking at it and unloaded the groceries into the empty fridge.

He heard the front door open just as the kettle began to whistle. A moment later he held a cup of tea out to Mrs. Hudson as she entered the kitchen. He watched as she reached for it, hesitating a moment as she recognized the mug as Sherlock's favorite, and then wrapped her hands around it.

"The microscope is gone," Mrs. Hudson said quietly, glancing behind him.

"It is, isn't it. Well. It was property of Bart's, actually. Borrowed. Legitimately, I think," John replied, looking a bit more closely around the kitchen.

The fridge had been emptied of body parts, and the microscope was gone. He opened the cupboard where Sherlock had kept his chemicals and sighed. He shook his head in response to Mrs. Hudson's questioning glance.

"Well," he breathed, "let's go see what else they've taken."

He slid open the door to the sitting room with a vague feeling of apprehension. The presence of the Yard team was obvious in the rearrangement of objects, the piles of books, and the greatly reduced stacks of papers, but they hadn't left things in disarray. The skull was still on the mantel, though the knife that had pinned the post down was gone. The violin was still on the shelf, the music stand still by the window holding sheets of Sherlock's most recent composition. One of Sherlock's dressing gowns was draped across the arm of the couch, partially obscuring the Union Jack pillow.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson said suddenly, putting her tea down on the desk and reaching for the dressing gown.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Just before you boys came home last Tuesday, before the police came, I went through the flat to do a bit if tidying up."

"Mrs. Hudson," John said, aiming for a chiding tone and mostly getting there. "You're not our housekeeper."

"Oh, I know, dear," she hiccuped a sad laugh. "But, you see, when I came through that day, I gathered up the laundry. Took it downstairs to start the wash. Wasn't until I got down there that I realised he'd left something in the pocket of his second-best dressing gown. Something you ought to have done a better job keeping hidden from him, John! My poor walls ..."

John staggered over to his chair and collapsed into it. He groaned in sudden understanding of just what Mrs. Hudson had found in Sherlock's pocket. He hadn't even thought … when he'd told Sally that the Yard wouldn't find anything linking Sherlock to any crimes, he'd been telling the truth. He'd forgotten that there was something that would, however, link _him_ to one.

He drew in a quick breath, reaching for calm. The Yard knew he'd been staying with his sister, and they hadn't come to arrest him. Obviously, then, they hadn't found it.

"Where is it now?" he asked.

"It's in the washing machine, dear. I had been about to pull it out of his pocket when I heard the commotion with the police. I tossed everything right in and started the cycle, then turned it off to let it soak. It's been in there soaking since then – they locked up your flat and said they'd be back to search, and I couldn't think where else to put it. I do hope that won't have ruined it?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson. It'll be fine. Once it's clean and dried, it'll be … fine. Just fine. Thank you."

John felt drained. His emotional resources were already stretched to their limit with just trying to acknowledge the consequences of Sherlock's actions. Anger had managed to break through his general numbness twice already this morning, and now he'd flashed over to outright panic, and just being here, in 221B, surrounded by Sherlock's things but clearly feeling the absence of the man himself … John was shattered.

"You look like you could use something to eat," Mrs. Hudson observed, throwing him a sorrow-filled look.

John tried to protest, but didn't have the energy. He realised, too, that taking care of him was what she needed to do. He gave a grateful, if resigned, nod and listened as she bustled back down the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4: 4 days After

**A/N - biscuits and chocolate for kate221b and Sevenpercent**

John hadn't even noticed when the crowd around the door to 221B Baker Street had been cleared away. He'd drawn the curtains after retrieving his very wet Browning from the washing machine the morning before. The paparazzi had already begun to gather.

The papers were continuing to run stories claiming that Sherlock was a fraud, now adding bits insinuating that John had gone into seclusion, either from grief over his lover's suicide, or embarrassment at having been fooled by the false detective. He wouldn't give them further fodder for their puerile stories, though he was unsure how he'd get through the crowd to make it to his shift at the surgery on Tuesday without all but inviting them to take pictures of his grief.

While he tried to work that out, though, he stayed away from the windows, and had thus only learned that the crowd had been rousted when Mrs. Hudson bustled upstairs, bringing him another plate of biscuits. She hadn't stopped baking since he'd come home.

"Must be something happening, John, dear," she said, putting the plate on the table.

"Oh?" John replied, folding the paper down to see her.

"Yes, dear," she replied, then glanced up at him and saw the newspaper. "Oh, I don't know why you read that rubbish. Lies, all of it."

"I know, Mrs. Hudson," John agreed, not able to explain why he continued to read the papers. They only added fuel to his anger, which burned quite hot enough already. "You were saying?"

"Well, it's the photographers, John. The reporters outside? They're gone. Every one of them. Good riddance."

She didn't wait for his response, just gave him a light pat on the arm, and headed back down the stairs through the kitchen door.

John sighed and folded the paper. Rising, he moved cautiously to the windows and peered through the curtains. The pavement below was empty. Briefly. As he watched a sleek black car pulled up to the kerb.

John cursed under his breath. He hadn't seen the paparazzi being forced to decamp, but he should have realized why it had happened as soon as Mrs. Hudson had mentioned it.

John glared down at the car for a moment before turning away from the window. He crossed to the kitchen and put the kettle on, pulling out the tray, the teapot, and the cups and saucers. Opening the cupboard door he reached behind the box of teabags and found the jar of loose tea, measuring some into the teapot. The he opened the fridge and pulled out the milk that he knew would be there.

He hated knowing that the milk would be there.

John heard voices downstairs, and knew that Mrs. Hudson was greeting their visitor. Only one set of steps trod the stairs. They were slow and heavy. John felt a flash of a grim comfort in that observation, and pushed it away with a frown.

The kettle switched off. He poured the boiling water into the teapot, put the lid on, arranged some of Mrs. Hudson's latest batch of biscuits on a plate, and moved the tray to the sitting room table. He would play the part of the proper host. Hide behind the formality. If he didn't, he knew that Mycroft would end up in hospital, and he would end up … somewhere not nice.

There was a polite cough from the landing.

"You never asked permission before, Mycroft," John remarked, not looking up from the tea tray.

When Mycroft hesitated, John turned to look at the bureaucrat. The doctor in John noted the sagging flesh in Mycroft's jowls, his grey complexion, the exhaustion in his eyes. His glare did not soften, nor his anger lessen, but John was forced to acknowledge that, facial structure and hair colouring aside, he was staring at the same face he saw every time he couldn't avoid the mirror. It was clear that the other man was suffering.

"Come in, Mycroft," he said grudgingly. "Tea?"

"No, I don't ..."

"I wasn't actually asking."

"I … see. In that case, thank you, Doctor Watson. Yes."

John watched as Mycroft stepped inside the flat and didn't sit so much as slumped down onto the couch, leaning his ever-present umbrella against his knee. John rolled his shoulders slightly to ease the tension, positioned the strainer over one of the cups and poured the tea.

"Why are you here, Mycroft?" John asked after the other man reached to take the cup and saucer extended to him.

Mycroft didn't answer immediately, taking a moment to sip his tea, his eyes closed.

"Moriarty is dead."

John startled. Mycroft's eyes opened and met John's gaze. John swallowed hard.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

"No."

"You're sure?" John wasn't sure if he was asking about Moriarty's death, or if if had been Sherlock who killed him.

"Very," Mycroft's response was clearly meant to answer both questions.

John nodded. Part of him didn't doubt that Sherlock would have killed the criminal mastermind, given the chance. But Sherlock hadn't killed before. John was glad he hadn't died a murderer.

Mycroft sipped again from his tea, resettling his cup in the saucer with the smallest 'clink' before speaking again, on another topic.

"There won't be a service, Doctor Watson. Sherlock hated sentiment and had no faith in a higher power."

"Services are typically meant for those left behind, not for the one departed," John rebuked, then sighed. "Though any service for Sherlock would undoubtedly be overrun by the vultures you had chased away from my door," he laughed grimly. "You know, just two weeks ago Greg tried to tell me that everyone was happily jealous of us. Of my 'relationship' with Sherlock. Now all they want to do is find another way to smear his name."

"A most perceptive observation from the Detective Inspector. Sadly, the only thing that sells papers better than sex is scandal, I'm afraid," Mycroft sighed.

"You're planning to do something about that, aren't you?" John asked, shooting a hard glance at the man on the couch.

"My hands are tied, Doctor Watson. There is evidence to clear Sherlock, proof that Moriarty was real ... but if it passes through my hands it will be automatically discredited, assumed to have been … altered at best. Created out of whole cloth at worst."

"What the bloody hell is all your power good for, then?" John demanded.

"Where Sherlock is concerned, nothing at all, I'm afraid," Mycroft answered with a heavy sigh. "I can, however, do a few things for you."

"I don't want anything from you, Mycroft."

"Perhaps you can be persuaded to accept on behalf of Mrs. Hudson? Or the surgery at which you are employed? You are planning to return to work?"

John glared at Mycroft. The other man moved to pour himself more tea, then settled back against the couch. John huffed his annoyance and nodded for Mycroft to continue.

"I can arrange to keep the paparazzi off of Baker Street, and away from the surgery. They will doubtless turn up wherever you go, for a while, but your home and your workplace would be free from their … delightful presence."

"That would be … appreciated," John allowed, finally.

"Very well." Mycroft nodded, sipped his tea, and continued, "His headstone will be installed next Thursday. Paddington Old Cemetery."

They sat in silence for several minutes, drinking their tea. John cleared his throat.

"If there's nothing else, then, Mycroft ..."

"Just one more thing, Doctor Watson," Mycroft interrupted, putting his cup and saucer down and reaching into his jacket pocket to withdraw an envelope. He extended it to John. "A copy of his will."

John hesitated for a moment before accepting the offering.

"He has left you all his physical possessions – the contents of the flat, a storage unit, and a safety deposit box. The details are there, and the keys are here," he placed two keys, one large, one small, on the table before reclaiming his teacup and helping himself to a biscuit.

John raised his eyebrows as he slid a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. "All his physical possessions, huh? His toenail collection? The congealed blood in the cupboard? The mold experiments?"

"All yours, now, Doctor Watson," Mycroft replied with the ghost of a smile. "He has also left instructions for his estate to continue paying the rent here until such time as you give other directions."

"The rent?" John asked, eyes moving down to the single sheet of paper in his hand.

He didn't take in a single word of the brief form, until the scrawled signature and the date.

It was dated 28th April of the year before. Shortly after the incident at the pool with Moriarty and the damned semtex vest. The second page was an addendum giving information about the safety deposit box, dated 14th February.

John realized that he was holding the paper in a clenched fist and forced himself to relax his grip. He drew in a breath, keeping it steady only with great effort.

"Only his portion I'm afraid," Mycroft continued.

John laughed at that. His laughter was bitter, but genuine.

"Bastard," he muttered.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed.

John looked at the surviving Holmes brother. His colour had improved a bit, though the sagging flesh and haggard expression still spoke of bone-deep exhaustion. Mycroft seemed to be almost imperceptibly relieved. More than John might have expected to result from their strained exchange. John wondered at the fact that Mycroft's barely noticeable improvement made him ever so slightly … glad.

The other man's jaw twitched, and John knew he'd just been deduced, his reaction read and understood. He was surprised to see a briefly conflicted expression flash across Mycroft's face before the bureaucrat looked down, brushing invisible lint from his trousers in preparation for standing.

"Finish your tea, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked surprised.

"Anthea hasn't been taking very good care of you," John said, turning slightly to direct his statement into the empty flat behind him, voice raised slightly.

"I assure you, _Anthea_ has more important things to do than worry about me," Mycroft replied, mildly stressing the woman's name in an indication that though he knew to whom John was referring, it was not her true name.

"No, I don't think so," John shot back. "Don't get me wrong, Mycroft, I'd trade you for Sherlock without a second thought if I could. As that doesn't appear to be possible, I'd love to offer you free reconstructive surgery on your nose, courtesy of my fist," his bluntness was rewarded with a vaguely shocked look. "I am _angry_ with you," he continued, his voice cracking as his anger briefly surfaced. He paused, forcing himself to be calm. "But the world has already lost one of the Holmes brothers. I don't think it could stand to lose the other."

"Don't think for a moment that the world could stand to lose you, either, Doctor Watson," Mycroft replied, picking up his teacup and drinking down the last of his tea. "I will survive this. See that you do, as well."

"As soon as I remember how, Mycroft, I will," John agreed. "Now," he continued without malice, "get out."

Mycroft nodded, replacing the teacup and saucer on the tray. He collected his umbrella and stood, moving to the door. He stopped at the threshold, half turning back.

"John, I ..."

"I know, Mycroft."

John watched as the other man squared his shoulders and stepped through the open door. He closed his eyes and counted the steps as Mycroft descended the stairs, listening as the front door opened and closed again.


	5. Chapter 5: 5 days After

A/N - all the scrumptious things to kate221b

* * *

John wondered, the fifth day after the Fall, how much more he had left to give.

He _hurt_. He hurt so much that it dwarfed the anger he was feeling, and yet he knew he'd never been so angry in his life.

No matter how he hurt, though, he could not stand to see the hurt in others. It went against everything in his nature to allow suffering to continue without at least trying to ease the pain, even when his proverbial bucket was drained nearly dry.

It had not been difficult to offer comfort to Mrs. Hudson. She didn't demand much of him beyond a shoulder to cry on and a body to feed. She'd begun baking shortly after he'd left her to go upstairs, and hadn't stopped since. He accepted every plate of biscuits, scones, and cakes that she'd brought up to him, and made himself available to her any time she needed it. It provided a degree of satisfaction to him, to be able to give her what she needed.

It was an odd feeling, to be both drained and recharged by spending time with someone.

It had been harder to deal with Mycroft. Before the bureaucrat's arrival, if you'd asked him, John might have said that Mycroft deserved any pain he felt over Sherlock's death. He might have said that he'd take great pleasure in needling the minor government official to make the hurt sting just that much more. But that wasn't what happened.

It had been something of a shock to John to realize that he was bothered to see Mycroft's pain when the other man had visited the day before, bringing news of Moriarty's death, and of Sherlock's service (or lack thereof), headstone, and will. John saw the ache of loss and the sharper pang of guilt weighing down on the surviving Holmes brother. He was not ready, possibly never would be, to ease the latter, but the compulsion to relieve the former twisted his stomach into knots.

Though Mycroft had not asked for comfort – had clearly not expected it – it was demanded of John. By John. And so, in spite of his continued anger with the man, he had dipped into his bucket, as deeply as was possible, to offer solace. Not forgiveness. No. Not yet – and maybe never. But consolation.

Now, with only drops left, it seemed he was to be being asked to give more.

Mycroft's visit, or the removal of the paparazzi from his doorstep, seemed to have been a long-awaited signal to visitors to come offer their sympathies and pay their respects.

Molly. Mrs. Turner with her 'married ones' from next door. Mike Stamford. Dimmock and Lestrade. Angelo. Sarah.

Molly brought a few of Sherlock's effects with her. His wallet and watch. His shoes. His keys. A small rubber ball that John remembered him toying with at Bart's when John had finally caught up with him in the lab. John put the shoes next to the front door, and the wallet, watch, and keys on the kitchen worktop. He found himself still holding onto the ball, squeezing it softly, after Molly left.

John was surprised to find that in spite of Molly's own desperate unhappiness, she hadn't looked to him for comfort. She hadn't really even looked to him, looked _at_ him, at all. She hadn't met John's eyes once during her visit. The only comfort she'd accepted was a plate full of scones from Mrs. Hudson. He felt vaguely guilty for the relief that flooded him when she'd gone, without having further diminished his already depleted stores.

When Mrs. Turner and her lodgers came by, the woman spent most of her visit with Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen. The married ones' efforts were directed toward John, and he appreciated the rather ham-handed way they tried to comfort him, though their words were tangled with assumptions about his relationship with Sherlock. He allowed their intentions to drip into his bucket, both soothing and replenishing him.

Mike hadn't come with words of sympathy, but with apologies for not being able to come sooner and a near-violent outburst of disgust at the stories in the papers, and at the public that believed them. He'd been out of the country attending a medical research conference and hadn't heard the news, either of the suicide, or the claims that Sherlock had been a fraud, until he'd stumbled off his redeye return flight, taken a cab to Barts, and run into Molly in the lab.

"Do you know what I found on my desk when I finally got to my office?" Mike asked, reaching into his briefcase to pull out a sheaf of papers covered in Sherlock's messy scrawl. "It's an addendum to a proposal I haven't even finished writing yet, justifying an increase in the budget for the addition of a piece of capital equipment for the lab. Obviously the sodding bastard wanted to have it available for his own reasons, but he wrote this up outlining all the ways it would be useful in my research, on a project for which I've only just drafted the abstract. Which he never even saw – I wrote it on the flight to the conference. No – he did all this," Mike waved the papers around vehemently, "after a one minute conversation in the lab before he ran off with results for some case. _Fraud my arse_."

Mike's outrage did more to ease John than the words of comfort received earlier. John could feel the minute trickle recharging his reserves, covering the bottom of his bucket with small but measurable depth. It was good to be reminded that others believed in Sherlock Holmes.

When Detective Inspector Dimmock stopped by later that afternoon, bringing a very haggard Greg Lestrade with him, it was clear to John that he was going to need every last drop.

Dimmock shook his hand, briefly offering his condolences, while Mrs. Hudson fussed over Lestrade. The younger DI had worked with Sherlock on a handful of cases and knew the truth of his genius. He was distressed with the situation – with the suicide and the headlines – but he wasn't hurt by it. His words to John didn't do anything to restore him, but they didn't take from him, either.

John saw Dimmock look back over his shoulder at his fellow officer, and heard the man's quiet sigh.

"They took his warrant card today. Administrative leave, they said, while they determine whether or not to bring him up on charges," Dimmock huffed. "They'll have to file charges against half the Yard … Greg was clearly Sherlock's preferred contact, but he was certainly not the only one to bring Sherlock in on cases."

"How long?" John asked.

"Internal investigations usually take a few weeks," Dimmock answered. "There are so many cases, though, and now the solicitors are bringing appeals to the courts, seeking to overturn convictions … I don't have any idea how long this will drag out."

John nodded, saying nothing, eyes on Lestrade. The other man seemed to feel the weight of his gaze, and looked up from where Mrs. Hudson was pressing a mug of tea into his hands. John could feel the other man flinch when he stepped forward.

John stopped, eyes flicking over Lestrade. It did not take a genius to see that there was more than grief weighing so heavily on Lestrade, to read the guilt the other man wore in his defeated expression, slumped shoulders, and red-rimmed eyes.

John looked down at a touch on his arm and glanced back to Dimmock, seeing the apprehension in his face and feeling the question in the weight of his hand. Dimmock needed something from him, after all.

He did not try to pull away. After a moment Dimmock seemed to relax, and John patted the hand on his arm in understanding. When it fell away, John cleared his throat, speaking to Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, without looking away from Dimmock.

"Mrs. Hudson," John called softly, "I think Detective Inspector Dimmock would like one of your currant scones."

"Of course, dear," was the woman's reply as she turned to bustle about the kitchen. She turned back a moment later, "Oh, we must have given the last of the currant scones to Molly. A lemon scone, perhaps? Or if you don't mind waiting a moment, I've got more downstairs?"

"I'd prefer the currant scone, Mrs. Hudson, if it's no trouble. I could come with you?" Dimmock said, moving to escort the landlady out of the flat and down the stairs.

John was left alone in the flat with Lestrade. He waited.

Lestrade put his mug on the table with exaggerated care, then hesitated. John saw the other man's reluctance and managed to lift his hand slightly, initiating a handshake, offering a welcome. He saw relief flood Lestrade's face as he stepped forward, the other man's eyes locked onto their joined hands.

"John, I ..."

"Not your fault," John interrupted.

"If I hadn't doubted ..."

"You didn't," John said with certainty. "You did your job. He knew you would. Not your fault."

John felt the tremor in Lestrade's hand, saw him shudder as he drew a ragged breath. John brought his free hand up to clap Greg on the shoulder, using the movement to turn them back to the kitchen. He pushed gently until Greg sank into a chair at the table, and then put his tea back into the his hands. Turning to fix him own cup of tea he heard the other man draw breath to speak.

"I mean it, Greg. You didn't do this. I promise you. He knew you didn't suspect him."

"You didn't."

John shot a quick look back and met Greg's defeated gaze.

"_I_ am an idiot. Which should come as no shock to you, given how often you heard him say it."

He was rewarded by a small huffed breath. Not a laugh. But a start.

"I knew you didn't doubt him, Greg," John continued, upending his bucket, pouring the cool water over the fevered ache he saw, wishing there were more. "You called to warn us. I knew. I knew that he trusted you, and I trusted him, and I trusted you. I _knew_. But I was angry and hurting, and I knew the cuffs were necessary, but I lashed out. You were … a safe target."

John pulled out the other chair and sat opposite the suspended DI.

"I considered what they said, though."

"Of course you did!" John responded with some heat. "That's what makes you a good cop, Greg. A good man. You were willing to look at the evidence, consider the possibilities. They were never willing to do that, even when they watched him work. They refused to put their emotions aside and _look_ at what was right in front of them. You did. Of course you did."

Greg didn't respond, lifting his cup to his lips and sipping his tea. John noticed, though, that when he put the mug back on the table, the other man's shoulders were squared, the slump gone.

"They threatened to go over my head," he sighed. "Told me they'd take it to the Chief themselves if I refused."

John nodded. He'd figured that this must have been the case, finally able to think it through, sitting on the couch in the dark in Kitty Riley's flat. And he'd seen confirmation in Sally's defiant, angry, guilty attitude the morning after, when she'd brought a bag of clothes to Harry's house for him.

"He's being buried in Paddington Old Cemetery. There won't be a service," he said after a minute. "Too much sentiment. Too many vultures."

"Yeah."

"What are you going to do now? With the investigation?" John asked.

"Only thing I can do. Tell the truth. Doesn't matter anyway. They won't listen."

"They might. Moriarty isn't around to continue spewing lies."

"How did you …? Mycroft." Greg shook his head. "Dimmock told me about the body on the roof on the way over. 'Richard Brook.' Wasn't supposed to. Classified."

They sat in silence for a moment. John heard faint voices from downstairs, getting louder. He looked back at Greg and caught a new flash of guilt crowding the other man's expression.

"Christ, John, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have … this isn't about ..." he stopped, shook his head and collected himself. "How are you?"

John gave the only answer he could find. "Empty."

A few moments later Dimmock reappeared, munching a scone and carrying a small paper sack undoubtedly holding more. John rose and moved to the sitting room table, picking up the larger of the keys Mycroft had left the day before.

"Give this to Donovan, would you?" he asked, handing the key to the DI. He picked up a piece of paper and wrote down the address of the storage facility. "Found out about this yesterday. No idea what's in it."

"Sussex?" Dimmock asked.

"Apparently. I don't think he's been there recently. Not since I've known him, at any rate. In the interests of furthering her investigation into Sherlock's innocence, though, she should check into it. Tell her to send me the list of anything they decide to take into evidence, as I'll be wanting it back."

"His innocence?" Lestrade commented, his lips barely quirking upwards.

"It's all they'll find," John responded. "Might as well call it what it is, then."

The smile that touched Lestrade's lips sparkled in his eyes. John smiled back, though his expression was tight.

"There's a safety deposit box as well, but that's here in London. Have her ring me and I'll meet her there."

"I'll take care of it," Dimmock agreed, folding the key into the paper with the address on it, and pocketing it.

The two men left shortly after that. Mrs. Hudson tutted over their depleted stock of scones and biscuits and headed back downstairs to make more. John made a mental note to stop at Tesco's after his shift at the surgery the next day to pick up more baking supplies as he moved to the sink to rinse out his cup.

His eye fell on Sherlock's keys, sitting on the worktop. An odd key fob caught his attention. Putting the dirty cup in the sink, John picked up the keys and inspected the unlikely ornament.

It was a signet ring, the crest carved into the flat agate stone worn but still faintly visible. He'd never noticed it before, but Sherlock had usually bounded out of the cab and opened the door while John was left behind to pay the fare. There'd never really been much opportunity for him to see the bundle of keys, much less inspect them closely.

Without really thinking about his actions, John unwound the ring from the mass of keys, pulled his own keys from his pocket, and threaded it on. Replacing the keys in his pocket, he picked up the rest of Sherlock's things and took them up to his room. Putting the items down on the duvet, he reached under his bed and pulled out a flat wooden box, then sat heavily on the mattress. Opening the box, his eyes skipped over his service medals and dog tags, resting instead on the family keepsakes nestled in the velvet lining – a plain silver pocket watch handed down from his Gramps, a heavy gold cigarette lighter and a pair of RAF wings that had belonged to his Grandad, and pewter thimble from his Gran. Reaching into the box, John ran his fingers around the edges seeking the last item – his great-grandfather's ring – a silver band inlaid with a dark brown cairngorm. Not finding the ring, he lifted the medals up to peer beneath their ribbons, but it was not there.

"Damn it."

The loss was small – the ring had no monetary value. But it added insult to the staggering injury of Sherlock's suicide. He sat on his bed between the box of his own mementos – now short by one – and Sherlock's effects, and gave himself over to the raw, hot, ache that clawed at him from behind his eyes. His breathing grew ragged and unsteady, but the tears would not come.

John sat, unthinking, until the light from the windows faded and he was left in the dark. Rousing himself when he heard Mrs. Hudson moving about, he left the box and Sherlock's things on his bed and went downstairs. The scent of fresh baked goods that greeted him in the sitting room made his stomach growl. Audibly.

"Oh, dear. I've been so busy baking, I've not started anything for tea," Mrs. Hudson tutted.

John thought about protesting that she wasn't his housekeeper, and certainly not responsible for making his meals, but he knew that looking after him was helping her work through her own grief.

"I can make us a salad, Mrs. Hudson, if that will work with whatever you might have planned? Anthea seems to have overstocked the fridge with leafy greens. We should probably eat them before they start to resemble one of his experiments."

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, nodding. "Yes, that would be fine, dear. I'll just go downstairs and see ..."

The doorbell rang. John glanced at Mrs. Hudson, eyebrows raised. He honestly couldn't think of anyone else who'd possibly felt close enough to Sherlock to come pay their respects. Her expression suggested that she was thinking the same thing. He nodded, and led the way downstairs to see who was at the door.

An older, heavy-set man with a gray beard and his long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail greeted them with a polite nod.

"Angelo," John said, surprised.

"Doctor Watson, ma'am. I'm sorry to intrude. I wanted to let you know how sorry I am about Sherlock. He cleared my name, you know."

"Cleared it a bit," John replied with a small laugh, remembering the long ago conversation.

Angelo grinned. John watched as the other man's smile softened, his face becoming more pensive. Angelo looked at the ground, then back up to meet John's eyes.

"I wanted to let you know that I expect you'll still come by. There is a table for you, anytime."

John stared blankly for a moment, then realized what Angelo was saying. What he was offering.

"Any debt you thought you had was to Sherlock, Angelo," John said softly.

"And his was to you, Doctor Watson," Angelo replied.

"He didn't owe me anything!" John responded, startled.

"Oh, yes, he most certainly did," Mrs Hudson disagreed, laying her hand on John's arm.

Angelo nodded to her, then turned his attention back to John.

"I am not done paying him back. He's not here to accept. That leaves you."

"Angelo," John protested, shaking his head.

"Doctor Watson, I insist. There will always be a table for you, anytime you want one."

"I … You ..." John broke off, not sure what to say. It was clear that Angelo was determined that John agree. He sighed. Accepting this … payment? gift? … made John uncomfortable. He could say yes, though, and be grateful for Angelo's offer, without taking the man up on it. "Thank you, Angelo."

The other man beamed.

"Good. That's good. Anytime, Doctor Watson, I mean it."

"Please, Angelo, it's just John."

"John," Angelo agreed. "If I don't see you, at least once a month, I'll send dinner over."

John smiled and rolled his eyes at the restauranteur, who had clearly followed John's thoughts.

"Yes, all right, fine. Thank you, Angelo."

"Excellent. Now, I've brought you something for dinner tonight," Angelo responded, stepping over to the car parked at the kerb and pulling out a large bag of take-away. He brought it over and handed it to John with a smile.

"Oh, let me take that in and keep it warm," Mrs. Hudson said, taking the bag from John. "Thank you, Angelo."

"You're quite welcome, ma'am."

John watched Mrs. Hudson hurry back inside and then turned back to Angelo. The other man's face was sad and serious.

"When will ..."

"There won't be a service," John said quietly, "His headstone will be installed on Thursday. Paddington Old Cemetery."

Angelo nodded. "I'll let his people know."

"His people?" John asked. "Homeless?"

"That's them."

"Good. That's good, then," John said slowly. He met Angelo's eyes and nodded. "Thank you, Angelo."

"Of course, Doctor Watson – John. I'll be seeing you."

"Yes," John agreed with a flicker of a smile. "Yes, you will."

The restauranteur smiled and moved back to his car. John watched as he pulled away, then, turning to go back inside, he caught sight of someone approaching. Her eyes were on him, her face filled with concern.

"Sarah."

"John."

He took a deep breath, afraid of her reasons for coming to Baker Street. She smiled briefly, a sad smile.

"I'm sorry, John."

"Sarah, don't ..." John suddenly felt that his bucket was not only empty, but had holes drilled in the bottom.

"He was an arse, your friend, but he was real. I'm sorry for your loss."

John put a hand out to steady himself on the wall. The breath he drew in was almost a sob. He closed his eyes, then wrenched them back open when he felt a hand on his cheek, and found himself staring into Sarah's concerned face.

"You thought I was telling you not to come in tomorrow," she whispered.

"I … I need ..." John couldn't make the words come.

"Your shift starts at nine. Don't be late."

"No, I won't be," John agreed, trying to arrange his features into a smile, feeling faint with relief. The locum work at the surgery had always been a distraction – usually from running around London to assist Sherlock with cases. Now, though, he needed it as a diversion from the lack of cases and the crazy consulting detective he'd helped solve them. "Any shifts you have, Sarah, any hours you need to fill ..."

"I understand, John. We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?"

"Yes, fine. That's fine, Sarah. Thanks," John stammered, then closed his eyes and held himself still. He breathed in slowly and deeply, counting silently until he was calm. Until he could appear calm. He opened his eyes again and managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Sarah."

She nodded at him, slid her hand from his face down to his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze, and turned to go. John watched as she walked away. She hadn't gone more than four steps before she turned and flashed him a smile.

"Nine sharp, John."

"Yes, ma'am."

He stood outside, watching her, until she turned the corner. Drawing in a ragged breath John squared his shoulders and headed back inside, closing the door behind him.


	6. Chapter 6: 20 days After

**A/N: Chocolate for kate221b :)**

* * *

John glanced down at his mobile. It was a Scotland Yard number, and John could think of only one person in the Met who might be calling. Sighing, he stabbed the button to answer the call, glad that something had come up to distract him during the lull between patients. Even talking with Sally Donovan would be an improvement on brooding further on his shame and guilt over the events of the Friday before.

"John Watson," he said.

"Doctor Watson, it's Detective Sergeant Donovan."

"I thought it might be," John replied. "This is about the security deposit box?"

"It is. You still want to give us access, or should I get the paperwork ready?" she asked, challenging.

John refused to let her anger him. "You won't need a warrant. When?"

"Tomorrow?"

"I'm free in the morning. Afternoon appointment at two. Does eleven work?"

"Yes. Fine. Coutts, you said?"

"Yes. Coutts, in Knightbridge."

"I'll meet you there at eleven," came the response, followed by the sound of the line being disconnected.

John stared at the mobile. As distractions went, it was altogether unsatisfactory. He pinched at the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off an incipient headache.

A distraction. He needed to be distracted. He'd counted on work to distract him from the ache of Sherlock's suicide. It had worked, mostly, but going home in the evenings had become harder and harder.

Nights were hard. If John managed to fall asleep, nightmares found him, blending the heat of the desert sun and the sounds of gunfire with the images of a body falling from a building, and blood on the pavement. Wrenching himself awake, sometimes with a shout, sometimes with a whimper, John decided he hated the night with a passion. He wished he could do without sleep, as Sherlock had done. Knowing that he couldn't, however, he would work to untangle himself from the sweaty sheets, calm his shuddering breaths, roll over, and seek oblivion.

Though it didn't seem possible, mornings were even harder. On autopilot, he'd stumble to the kitchen to make tea and rummage through the cupboards for breakfast. He'd only catch himself when he reached into the fridge for milk to add to the second cup of tea on the worktop.

Sometimes he'd dump the second cup in the sink immediately, stomping out of the kitchen, angry with himself, with Sherlock, with the whole sodding world. Other times he'd sigh, finish his tea and toast, and walk wearily out of the kitchen to shower and dress and ready himself for a shift in the surgery. The mug of cold tea on the worktop would be waiting for him when he returned home.

Returning home in the evenings was the hardest. Coming back to the flat to find it full of everything but Sherlock … somehow that was harder than the nightmares and the habits that he couldn't shake. He'd have had all day, awake and aware of the crushing knowledge that Sherlock was gone. Knowing what was waiting for him at the flat – and what wasn't. He was able to push just enough of the grief away to deal with the injuries and illnesses of his patients, focusing on them to distract himself from the gaping hole in his life.

At the end of the day, though, when the surgery shut for the night, he had to go home.

And home wasn't really _home_ any more.

It was getting harder to deal with, returning to the flat and hearing only silence where chaos used to reign. Even when Sherlock had been laying near-catatonic on the couch, fingers steepled together under his chin, silent and unmoving for hours … or days, the sound of his breathing – of his _thinking_ – would fill the flat. Animate it, somehow.

Now, 221B was as dead as Sherlock was.

He'd been so keen to get back to the flat after being kept away, first by the hospital, and then by the police. Once back, he'd found himself just as eager to distract himself from the full-yet-empty flat by returning to the clinic. He'd been so anxious for the distraction of work that he'd nearly had a full-blown panic attack when Sarah had come by to offer her condolences and he'd feared she was sacking him.

John had been so relieved when he'd realized he still had his job that he'd nearly cried. He hadn't cried over Sherlock's suicide – not consciously at any rate – but he'd been nearly faint with relief and had only just managed to hang on to his control, keeping tears at bay.

And so he'd been coming to work at the surgery, adding shifts to his schedule wherever he could. Anything to keep him busy, and keep him out of the flat. And yet, John wondered, briefly, if the hours of distraction his shifts in the surgery provided were actually worth the devastating disappointment that would greet his return to Baker street.

Sarah had noticed. She had seen how he continued to hang about the clinic after the doors were closed. How he procrastinated when it came time to leave. She had noticed and ...

Before he had time to fall back to his melancholy thoughts and his chagrin over the previous Friday, his mobile chirped with a text alert.

_I need a drink. Join me? My local, 7? - GL_

A drink with Greg would keep him from having to return to Baker Street, and it didn't hold nearly the potential for embarrassment and guilt that he felt over last Friday's activities. But meeting at the pub would mean paparazzi. Not able to harass him outside of Baker Street or in the surgery – thank you, Mycroft – the reporters had twice tried to corner him at Tesco, and they'd been skulking around when he'd been making home visits for his housebound patients. John sighed.

_Paparazzi will find us_. _Only 221B and work are 'safe.' - JW _John texted back, signing the message and feeling a twist of bitter amusement at the realization that both he and Greg were continuing Sherlock's habit.

Before Lestrade could respond to his message, John remembered another location. One that wasn't 'safe' from the paparazzi, but one that could be counted on to throw the bloody vultures out if they intruded. Not a pub, but they served good beer and nice wine. And better spaghetti a la carbonara.

He fired off a quick text to Lestrade, telling him he was working on a location and would get back to him, then John thumbed through his contacts list until he found Angelo's and typed out a quick text message asking for a table for drinks with a friend of Sherlock's. A few moments later the mobile buzzed with an incoming text confirming his reservation, along with a note from Angelo professing that any friend of Sherlock's was a friend of his. John smiled.

_Angelo's. Northumberland St.7 - JW_

_See you there. - GL_

John slid into the seat opposite Greg Lestrade. The other man had a pint in his hand. A second one sat on the table for John. He nodded his thanks and took a drink, just managing to swallow it down in time to greet Angelo as the restauranteur approached with a smile.

"Doctor Watson, good evening. Will you and the Detective Inspector be having dinner tonight? Or just drinks? Anything you want, you just let me know."

John shot a glance at Greg, who gave a mild shrug.

"Dinner would be great, Angelo," John said with a nod, accepting a pair of menus and passing one to Greg. "And, it's just John."

The restauranteur nodded, smiling, and left them.

"How did he know I'm a DI?" Greg asked, his eyes following Angelo. "He looks vaguely familiar."

"Yeah, he might. Apparently you arrested him on murder charges several years back, and Sherlock proved his alibi. Which was apparently burgaling a home on the other side of London."

"Ah," Greg said, nonplussed, and turned to study the menu.

John smiled, then sobered. Greg's hand on the menu showed a band of pale, indented skin on the fourth finger.

"Are we celebrating or commiserating?" he asked, taking a pull on his pint.

Greg raised an eyebrow and laid the menu aside.

"God, he rubbed off on you," he replied, then continued, "Both?"

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me, too. Was time though. Long past time, truth be told."

John was interrupted before he could offer further comment by the arrival of the waiter. They placed their orders and sat in silence for a few minutes.

"Did you want to talk about it?" John asked, shifting in his seat.

"Nothing much to say. It was amicable. Cited housekeeping as the cause."

"Housekeeping?" John asked.

"I told her I wouldn't claim her adultery as grounds for the divorce. Just didn't want to put that out there for the world to see, you know? Private records are only so private, no matter what they say. True or not, and it was, it isn't anyone's business but ours. I didn't want people to think that about her."

"You're a good man, Greg Lestrade," John said, lifting his glass in tribute.

"Ta," Greg replied.

"So, housekeeping?" John prompted.

"She looked up a list of reasons the court would accept, given that we weren't going to say adultery. Turns out that refusal to pay for house cleaning services is grounds for divorce. It's considered 'unreasonable behavior.'"

John snorted. Greg grinned, but the expression faded quickly.

"We fired the cleaner in January. She filed the paperwork for the decree nisi at the end of April. We went in today for the decree absolute."

"God, Greg. You all right?"

"Yeah. I suppose so. It's been over for months. Or longer. I didn't ever ask her when it all started. This just makes it official."

"You're going to need another drink."

"Oh, God yes."

When their food was brought a few moments later, John ordered another round. They attempted small talk while they ate, but silence was easier. The waiter came by with the dessert menu when they'd finished their dinners, but John waved it away, ordering another pair of pints instead.

Greg cleared his throat. John looked up and gave him a weary smile.

"How are you, John? Back to work, I hear."

"Yeah. Keeping busy. Trying not to think."

"How's that working for you?"

"Well, thinking never was my strong suit, according to Sherlock," John answered, trying for a smile. "It ought to be easier than it is."

Greg nodded, saying nothing. John brought a hand up to scrub at his face.

"I slept with Sarah," he said, picking up his pint.

"Sarah?"

"My boss."

"Oh, God. That's … awkward."

John choked on air. He put a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle giggles.

"Awkward. Ta," he gasped.

"So? What happened?"

John's hilarity fled.

"She knew Sherlock. You remember the Chinese smuggler case? You were out of town, so we were working with Dimmock?"

"Yeah, I remember. She's the one ..."

"Yep, she's the one. Kidnapped, tied to a chair in a disused Tramway tunnel, threatened with a huge crossbow. As first dates go, I'd say it was rather memorable."

"I'm amazed you got a second date. And kept your job."

"You and me, both, mate," John agreed. "Every other woman I dated after meeting Sherlock dumped me because I would jump when he called. Not Sarah, though. She had rather up-close-and-personal first-hand experience with his work, and she understood that it was important. She understood that I ran after him not only to keep him from throwing himself into danger, but to help him solve the case and save lives. She _got_ that, and didn't ever ask me to choose."

"And you let her go?"

"There was no … spark," John sighed. "I think we knew it even before we went to New Zealand. We certainly knew it after. We like each other – care for each other, but it just wasn't there for us. And it was … fine."

"It was fine," Greg echoed. "And now? Is it still fine? After … "

"God, Greg. I don't know. She insists that it is. She won't hear a word of apology, swears I have nothing to feel guilty over …"

"Guilty?"

John took a swallow of his beer, using the delay to try to find the right words. There weren't any.

"I used her."

Greg's gaze sharpened. John didn't look up from his hands where they clasped his pint, but he could feel the other mans scrutiny.

"No. No, I don't think so."

"What?"

"You don't have it in you to use a woman, let alone a woman you care about. Hell, you would do yourself injury to avoid using someone in general, even if you didn't like them."

"Well, it might not bother me if it was Anderson ..." John said, trying to smile, trying to let Greg's confidence in him ease his conscience. "It's just … it wasn't about her, you know? It wasn't even about me, really. It was biology. Or psychology. It was release. The body's way of letting you forget, while reminding you that you're alive after … And she knew it, too. Knew that she was just convenient and willing and that it didn't _mean_ anything. Damn it! I'm a doctor. I know how this works."

"She's a doctor, too, John. And knowing the mechanics of what's happening doesn't mean it's easier when it happens to you. I know how a gun works. Doesn't mean I can dodge a bullet any faster," Greg replied. "How'd it happen?"

"She noticed that I haven't wanted to go home in the evening. It's getting harder rather than easier. Isn't it supposed to get easier?" John demanded, his voice anguished.

"It is, yeah," Greg agreed.

"Well, it's not. It's harder than sodding fuck to go back to the flat and know that it's empty. I go in to work and deal with snotty noses and minor injuries and routine check-ups, just so that I don't have to think about … And I can handle it. I _can_. And then I have to go home and it's empty. And I _can't _handle it."

"And Sarah noticed?"

"Yeah. She came by my office last Friday, needing to lock up. I was hanging about, procrastinating. Instead of chasing me out, she took me home. She didn't give me a chance to argue, really, just asked me to walk her to her car, then asked me to get in, and then asked me in for dinner when we got there. You know how it is, asking in a way that isn't really asking?"

"I am intimately familiar with that particular device, yeah," Greg said with a hint of a smile.

John smiled back, though he knew it wasn't very convincing.

"So I sat on her couch with a glass of wine while she made dinner. She didn't press me to talk. Didn't ask how I'm doing. She just gave me a place to be that wasn't Baker Street."

"Sounds nice."

"It was," John agreed. "After dinner she sat with me on the couch and turned on crap telly. She just … held me. And then I kissed her, and then … fuck," he groaned. "I wish I could blame the wine, but we only had the one glass."

"Did it help?"

"The wine?"

"The sex."

"Did the sex help?" John laughed harshly.

"Doctors aren't the only ones who might be familiar with this sort of behavior, John."

John stared blankly across the table, then nodded his understanding.

"I don't know if it helped, honestly. I told you, that day in the flat, that I was empty. These days, I'm full. I'm bursting at the seams, Greg. Angry and sad and hurt … How could he _do_ that? Tell me to stand there, tell me to keep my eyes on him? Fucking bastard!" John drew in a deep breath, sat back in his chair, and pressed the heels of this hands to his eyes. "It was a bit of a release. Bled off some of the pressure, I suppose. But to get it out that way … it was unconscionable."

"John. She is your boss. Do you think that if you'd done anything you needed to feel guilty about, you'd still have a job?" Greg asked seriously. "Have you talked to anyone?"

"No. Sarah asked the same thing, after."

"I think maybe you need to."

"Yeah. Have an appointment already. For tomorrow, actually. Made it from Sarah's living room while she made breakfast. Because that can't happen again. There has to be some other way ..."

John reached for his pint and drained it. Across from him Greg was fumbling through his wallet, finally pulling out a card and tossing it on the table in front of John.

"What's this?" John asked, picking it up.

"Trial membership at my gym. It's one frequented by lots of Yarders, which I suppose has its downsides, but it does mean that the paparazzi are unlikely to descend in great numbers. Gave me that and a dedicated locker when I pre-paid for a year. It's good for three months. My locker is number 74. Combination is the last four of my mobile number."

"Okay ..." John said, clearly puzzled.

"Use it. God knows someone should. Go beat the tar out of something. Because I know you'll try, with the talking and such, but it won't be all you need."

John looked at Greg, sure that his expression showed just how lost he felt, at sea with the whole situation and with Greg's gesture. He swallowed hard, feeling a hot ache behind his eyes that just wouldn't resolve, and wouldn't go away. Nodding, he slipped the card into his own wallet.

"Thanks," he managed, finally. "Thanks."


	7. Chapter 7: 3 weeks After

**A/N: Biscuits for kate221b :)**

* * *

He arrived at the bank to find Sally standing outside the front door, looking at her watch.

"Sorry I'm a bit late. The queue for coffee was longer than I anticipated," he apologized, extending the second cup.

Sally looked at him with surprise.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "First the passwords, then the storage unit, now this? And coffee?"

"The coffee is because I needed some, and it doesn't take any longer to stand in line for two than it does for one. And the swill in the machines at the Yard is worse than the dreck in hospital, and not something I would wish on my worst enemies."

She snorted agreement and accepted the cup.

"I have never been your enemy, Sally. I was just his friend."

"He didn't have friends," she muttered.

"Nope," John agreed, almost smiling. "Just one. Shall we?"

John turned and began climbing the last steps to the door of the bank.

"But why the rest, John?" Sally asked, joining him. "Why give us access to the computers and his storage unit?"

"Because I believe in him," John answered. "And you'd have gotten access anyway, through the courts. This saves time, and it gives my faith in him an outlet. This is not about proving you wrong, Sally. It's about proving me right."

John saw her reflection in the glass door as he opened it for her. Her expression was a study in puzzled insolence. She caught him looking and pursed her lips. He just tilted his head, then followed.

"May I see your ID, please?" the clerk asked politely.

John opened his wallet and pulled out his ID. He handed it over, along with a copy of Sherlock's will and a copy of his death certificate.

The clerk examined the documents, matching the name on the certificate with the will, then matching the name of the beneficiary with John's ID, before glancing up to make sure the photo matched.

"I'm afraid I'll also need ..." the clerk began.

"... to see this," Sally interjected, pulling her NSY ID card out to flash the clerk.

"Oh. I see," the clerk said with a jerky nod. He opened flipped open a ledger and turned it to face John. "If you'll just sign here, I'll go get the box."

"Do that," John agreed pleasantly, signing the indicated line. "Leave the ledger. The Detective Sergeant will be needing to see how often the box has been accessed, when, and by whom. If you can also bring in the origination documents on the box, that would be appreciated."

"You have a ..."

"Warrant?" Sally asked, laying a folded document on the table.

"I'll just go get the box," the clerk said hastily, leaving John and Sally at the table with the open ledger in front of them.

"You came prepared," John commented, indicating the warrant as he flipped back through the ledger.

"Contrary to what the Fre - _he_ said, I do know how to do my job," Sally responded. "You are willing to give our investigation access to the contents of the box, and I am grateful not to have to fight you for it, but you have no authority to divulge the bank's records."

John nodded, sipping his coffee. He had not found anything in the ledger to indicate that Sherlock had been to visit the box in months. He felt Sally watching over his shoulder as he flipped back through the pages. John was sure that she would have caught anything he'd missed as they looked over the signatures.

"Here," he said, finally, pointing to a line bearing Sherlock's scrawl. It was dated February 14th.

"That's the same date on the addendum," John noted, showing her the second page of the will.

Sally took a quick photo of the ledger page using her camera phone. When she nodded, John continued to turn the pages to look for earlier instances of Sherlock coming to view the contents of the box. He reached the first page, dating back to the first of the year, without finding further evidence that Sherlock had been in.

"Oh, here" Sally said, fumbling in her pocket and pulling out a key. "For the storage unit in Sussex."

"Find anything?" John asked, taking the key and slipping it into his pocket.

"Beekeeping equipment."

"What? Really?"

"You didn't know?"

"That he was interested in bees? I suppose I did know that. Or, I should have _observed_. He had a couple books about bees and beekeeping in the flat, I think. And a print of an electron microscope scan of a bee in his bedroom. But he I don't think he ever talked about it," John answered, trying to remember if Sherlock had ever mentioned bees. He shook his head. "If you mean, did I really not know what was in the locker – no, I didn't. I didn't even know it existed until Mycroft brought me a copy of the will and the keys."

"And you just handed the keys to Dimmock," Sally murmured.

"And I'm just meeting you here," John agreed.

"What do you think is in it?" she asked.

"No idea. He wasn't sentimental, so I doubt it's some inherited trinket, or keepsakes from school or friends. Or mementos from cases. I'm the one who kept those. But I do know what we won't find."

"What's that?"

"Evidence that he was a fraud."

"You're so certain," she said, almost disconcerted.

"I am," John agreed. "He was brilliant. He could have used his mind – his skills at deduction – to do anything he wanted to. He used them to _help_."

"His skills at deduction," Sally murmured, shaking her head.

"You know those were real, Sally. Whether you believe he committed crimes or not, you know that was absolutely genuine."

"He could have known those details because he planned the crimes," she protested, though there was no heat in her tone.

"I suppose he could have. But what about the things he knew that didn't relate to crimes? He knew about you and Anderson."

He had touched a nerve. He saw the anger flicker in her eyes.

"Someone could have told him."

"Because your colleagues were so chummy with him that they spent hours sitting around gossiping about the state of Anderson's marriage, and his wife's travel plans," John retorted. "When I met him, Sherlock was waiting to be called in on that serial suicide case. He'd clearly been left out of the investigation until Lestrade came to ask him to see the last body. Lestrade was the only person on the force he spoke to before we met you at the crime scene."

"Lestrade ..."

"Didn't tell him. Because he didn't know, did he?" John asked harshly. "You had twice the reason to keep it secret from him. Not only would he frown on your … association … as your boss, but you knew how he'd feel about it given that his wife was cheating on him."

John looked at Sally with a sort of grim calmness, ignoring her murderous glare. Before either of them could say anything more, the clerk returned with a slim file folder, a few forms, and a flat drawer, cover down and locked in place.

"Here you are, Doctor Watson. You have the key?"

"I do," John said, pulling the item from his pocket, along with a pair of purple nitrile gloves.

"Very good, sir. I've taken the liberty of bringing in change of ownership forms for you ..."

"I'll deal with that after we've had a chance to look at the contents," John interrupted, handing the clerk the ledger. "We're finished with this, I believe. If we can see the one from last year?"

"Oh, that won't be necessary," the clerk replied, opening the file folder and bringing out the box's documentation. "Mr. Holmes opened the box on 14th February. All his visits to the box would have been this year, so this is the only ledger that applies."

"I see," John said, glancing at Sally, who nodded, taking photos of the origination paperwork in the file.

"Well, I'll just leave you to open the box. Just let me know when you're done and we can deal with the ownership forms."

"Yes, thanks."

When the door closed, John pulled the gloves on. The snap to his right indicated that Sally was doing the same. He glanced over at her as he picked up the key. The eyes that met his were angry, and curious, and almost desperate. Looking back to the box, John inserted the key into the lock, and turned it until they heard the faint click of the tumbler.

John lifted the lid, and smiled.

Inside the box were pages of sheet music. Sherlock's scrawl at the top of the page was at odds with the meticulously neat notations of the music he'd composed.

"Tea?" Sally asked, reaching for the pages of music.

"Who knows," John responded with a shrug. He had no idea why Sherlock would have given the piece that title, nor why that piece was worthy of being kept in a safety deposit box. "What's this, then?" he asked, looking at the item that had been hidden under the paper.

John pulled the cheap mobile phone out of the drawer and turned it over in his hands. It was the sort of phone one could get from a street vendor for about 20 quid, including a 5 quid credit for making calls. John pressed the power button, but nothing happened.

"Battery's dead. He didn't leave the charge cord."

"We'll be able to charge it at the Yard," Sally said, handing him an evidence bag.

John nodded, slipping the mobile into the bag and sealing it. He picked up the pen the clerk had left on the desk and made the appropriate notation on the bag before handing it back to Sally. She had bagged the sheaf of papers as well, and slid both into her bag.

John looked in the drawer again, running his gloved hands around the edges to be sure they hadn't missed anything. There was nothing else.

"Well, that was rather anticlimactic," Sally muttered.

"I did warn you," John replied, ripping the gloves off and tossing them in the bin.

Sally grunted in response, sliding her bag up over her shoulder and standing. John leaned back in the chair, suddenly intensely curious. Her expression became guarded, her shoulders tensing.

"What?" she demanded.

"The thing with Anderson – it was going on before we met that night? Before the woman in pink?"

"How you can possibly think that's any of your business ..." Sally began heatedly.

"It's not, Sally. It's really not. And I honestly don't care one way or the other, except that I think you could do better," John replied, putting up a hand to placate her. "But – was that the first time you'd worked a case with Sherlock since the thing with Anderson started?"

She glared at him for a moment, then shook her head once. No.

"Had it been going on for long?"

"Long enough. What is your point?"

"He would have known. Before that night. You know he would have. But he hadn't said anything about it before, had he? I find that just a bit … curious, don't you?"

She frowned at him. "Go on, then. You've got a theory."

"Not really."

"Yes, really."

John sighed. He didn't have a theory. Not about this. But he'd never asked Sherlock about the animosity between the consulting detective and the Detective Sergeant. Sherlock had never been shy with his verbal abuse, but with Sally, and Anderson, it had been vitriolic.

"I never asked him why his interactions with you were so different from the way he worked with Lestrade. I just assumed that the first time you met he showed you up and you resented it. It's easy to understand – I'm sure he called you an idiot and belittled your skills from the moment he met you. But that's just his way of saying hello, and you know it," John mused. "So, what was it? When did he go from treating you as just another idiot, to sneering at you, personally? Was it before or after you saddled yourself with a relationship with Anderson? Was it before or after you attacked him with the label 'Freak'?"

Sally was spluttering.

"I never attacked him ..."

"You did. Every time you opened your mouth to call him a freak it was a very personal attack. That name falls from your lips so easily, it's clear you've been using it for quite some time. And he had ammunition to fire back at you, revealing your involvement with Anderson, but he didn't. You don't find that odd?"

John stood up and picked up his coffee, ignoring Sally as he walked to the door. Hand on the door knob, he stopped and turned back to meet her angry, confused glare.

"I do. I find it exceedingly peculiar that he didn't expose you until you tried to embarrass him in front of a stranger, and then insulted that stranger merely for being in his company. Interesting course of action for a psychopath, don't you think?"

"You're mental."

"That doesn't mean I'm not right," John said mildly, opening the door. "Have a good day, Detective Sergeant. See if you can get these items back to me faster than the property you took from the flat, won't you?"

John threw his fist at the heavy bag in front of him, feeling his knuckles impact the black leather and ignoring the sting in his skin and the ache that radiated through his hand and wrist, up to his shoulder. Another punch, and another, then he attacked with knees and feet, before swinging around to slam his fist into the bag again. He stepped away, breathing hard.

He was _blindingly_ angry.

John launched himself at the heavy bag again, pummeling and kicking it until he was almost too exhausted to stand. He knew that there were other people in the gym, could feel them watching him. He didn't care.

Steadying the bag, he stood, resting his head against it and breathing raggedly. After a moment he pulled himself upright and moved away, tearing at the tape across his hands, peeling it off as he staggered through to the showers. The others in the room stood aside to let him pass. He didn't bother looking at them.

In the locker room John stripped, indifferent about his nudity as only a man who has spent time in the Army could be, and tossed the sweat-stained clothing on a bench as he reached in to start the shower. John stepped into the warm spray and pulled the cheap curtain across the alcove, letting the water wash over him. He didn't have any soap or shampoo, so he did what he can with just water and his hands. He didn't turn the water off when he finally decided he was clean, though, continuing to let the jet of water pound into his left shoulder while he tried to think.

His hands will be bruised, tomorrow. His patients will undoubtedly notice. He can't be arsed to care.

His mind shied away from thinking about the appointment with Ella that he'd had this afternoon. Allowing any of that encounter to occupy his thoughts would drive him back to the bag, pounding on it until his knuckles were split and bloody. Instead, he thought about Sarah, and the emptiness of 221B that had driven him to abuse her concern for him. That _couldn't_ happen again. He couldn't let the stress of going home to the empty flat push him to take unethical actions.

If he couldn't take going home to the empty flat, John thought, perhaps he shouldn't.

John rolled that thought around, considering. He didn't like it.

He wanted to stay at Baker Street. He knew that Mrs. Hudson wanted him to stay. The thought of causing that woman further pain – having her lose the other of 'her boys', made his chest ache. And Sherlock wanted – would have wanted – him to stay. Otherwise he wouldn't have made sure that John had that option.

But, perhaps, for now, leaving would be for the best. Not permanently. Just until he could … could what? He didn't know. But not until he found a safer outlet for the tension than sex, and got some of it _out_ of his system. Maybe then the emptiness of the flat wouldn't be so absolutely crushing.

He snorted at the thought. The next breath he drew in sounded suspiciously like a sob, but his grief remained locked inside. He scrubbed at his face and sighed heavily.

John rotated his shoulder, feeling it already stiffening, but the exertion had done him good.

He'd stormed out of Ella's office, glared a fellow traveler into ceding a cab he'd just hailed, leaving the man standing in the rain without an umbrella, and ordered the driver to take him to Greg's gym. Inside, he'd located Greg's locker and appropriated the other man's workout clothing. The track pants were too long for him, but could be cinched tightly enough around the waist. John had pulled them on, tugged the worn tee shirt over his head, and threw his own clothing into the locker before stalking out to the receptionist to demand the use of her scissors. He'd handed them back a moment later, along with two-thirds of the length of the track pant legs. He asked her to point him in the direction of the boxing equipment, and stalked in that direction in surprisingly serviceable workout shorts.

The entire extent of his warm up before he'd attacked the heavy bag was swinging his arms back and forth across his torso, twice, after he'd taped up his hands. He'd have to do better, next time.

There would be a next time. Of course there would.

John shook his head, and reached to turn off the water. He wiped as much of the water off as he could, then pushed the shower curtain open and stepped out. He snorted to himself as he watched the other men in the locker room studiously avoiding looking in his direction, as they ignored one another. He scooped up his pants and Greg's tee and mangled shorts, grimacing at their dampness.

Crossing the room, he opened Greg's locker and pulled out his clothes. He wriggled his wet legs into his jeans, mindful of his commando state, and pulled on his shirt. Shrugging into his jacket, John closed the empty locker, folded the dirty clothes into a compact bundle, and strode out of the locker room.

He nodded briefly to the man now staffing the reception desk, and headed outside. Flagging down a cab, John gave him the address and sighed. He was going to move out of 221B. He didn't want to, but for now, he needed to. He'd find some thing small, something he could afford on just his pension, so that he could use his salary from the surgery to continue to pay Mrs. Hudson. Because he would be coming back.

"God damn it, Sherlock," he muttered.

A moment later John pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a quick text.

_I owe you a pair of track pants. Sorry. And thanks. - JW_


	8. Chapter 8: 54 days After

**A/N: Biscuits and chocolate for kate221b :)**

* * *

John approached the cemetery slowly, his hands wrapped around a pair of coffee cups. He wondered who would be there today, on the bench. Someone was always there. Today he was determined to approach whomever it was, and get some answers.

His visits to Sherlock's grave were sporadic. He'd first gone with Mrs. Hudson, days after his disastrous appointment with Ella, days after he'd packed a bag and moved out of Baker Street. Since then he'd stopped by the cemetery whenever his mid-day house visits put him in the neighborhood. Sometimes he'd talk to Sherlock, cursing the man for his actions, laughing over memories of their more madcap adventures, or just telling him of the day's goings on. Other times he was silent, just standing and staring at the headstone bearing his friend's name.

Every time he went, rain or shine, late morning or mid-afternoon, someone was on the bench. The occupant was never the same, and always clearly homeless. That wasn't unusual – the neighborhood had its share of squats. The people John saw on the bench though, while often dirty and unkempt, seemed stable in some way John couldn't explain.

On his sixth visit to Sherlock's grave, John realized that he recognized the woman on the bench, though it wasn't until two days later that he remembered where he'd seen her before. Waterloo Bridge. Sherlock had stopped the cab and hopped a fence to pass her a note and fifty quid when they were trying to track the Golem.

She was part of the his Homeless Network.

John supposed that they all were – all the people he'd seen on the bench in the cemetery. Angelo had told him that he'd let Sherlock's people know where the consulting detective had been buried. John had imagined that to mean that those who cared to do so would stop by to pay their respects, not that they would take up some kind of vigil.

He couldn't quite explain the way the tightness of his chest eased a bit at that idea.

It was with curiosity, trepidation, and something akin to gratitude, that John made his way to the cemetery. He'd traded a couple patients with a colleague in order to be in the right neighborhood to do this, hoping to talk with the mysterious honor guard on the bench. He'd stopped at a cafe on the way, hoping that a nice hot cup of coffee would ease the conversation.

Passing through the gate, John moved along the pathways, the buzz of bees in the garden patches almost making him smile.

The smile faded a bit when he first sighted the bench. There are two of them there today. One was the woman he'd recognized on his last visit, and the other was an older man. This was the first time he'd seen two people at the bench, and the first time he'd seen any of the watchers a second time. Squaring his shoulders slightly, John bypassed Sherlock's grave and walked over to greet them. They stood to meet him.

"I didn't expect there to be two of you," John said, extending the coffee to the woman. "I don't know how you like it, but figured that lots of milk and sugar wouldn't go too far amiss on the streets."

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," she replied, her use of his name confirming his deductions.

"I'm sorry I don't have one for you, sir, unless you'd like mine? I've only had ..."

"Oh, no, that's fine. I appreciate the thought."

John nodded, then took a closer look at the man before him.

"Wait, you're the drunk – well, the not-drunk – who bumped that bleeding paparazzi scout outside the flat just after …"

"Yes, that was me," the other man chuckled. "He looked like he was a right tosser. Such a shame about his phone. I'm Wiggins, by the way. Charlie Wiggins," he said, extending a hand.

John shook it warmly, a broad smile on his face.

"He did look like a tosser, didn't he?" he offered his hand to the woman.

"Roisin," she said, shaking his hand briefly before wrapping her own back around the coffee.

"A woman of few words," Wiggins said fondly.

"I'm very pleased to meet you both," John replied. "And more affected than I can say by your actions here."

"Yes, well. Thought someone ought to guard him," Roisin said.

"Is that what you're doing? Guarding?" John found the thought vaguely surprising.

"With all the rubbish the papers have been printing, there are some who've considered vandalism. We've dissuaded them," Wiggins explained.

"Oh, God," John groaned. "Dissuaded? Was anyone hurt?"

Roisin snorted.

"The types that think to sneak into a cemetery and deface the headstones are generally put off by witnesses. No need for violence," Wiggins said with a small smile.

"Except for him," Roisin interjected. "Witnesses didn't bother him."

"No. The only witnesses he doesn't like have badges. But what he did isn't rightly vandalism, I think."

"It's paint where it don't belong," she insisted.

"Let's ask Doctor Watson if it belongs, shall we?" Wiggins said, shrugging a shoulder in the direction of the headstone in invitation.

"What's this about, then?" John asked, mystified by their exchange.

"We're keeping the vandals away, but one of ours did a bit of decorating," Wiggins explained as he led John toward the black granite memorial.

John stood in front of it, eyes wearily tracing over the letters of the engraved name. He looked up at his companions. Wiggins' expression was curious. Roisin's was apprehensive.

"I don't see anything," John said, his tone questioning.

"Most people don't bother to look 'round the back."

John stepped around the headstone and looked at the back. What he saw made him laugh out loud.

Spray painted on the back of the stone were the words 'I believe in Sherlock Holmes.'

"Oh, God. That's … That's perfect. Thank Raz, will you?"

"Ah, I'd forgotten that you'd met our Raz," Wiggins said with a smile.

"Took an ASBO for the bloody prat," John agreed, feeling his lingering irritation with the street artist fading to nothing in the face of this spray painted tribute. Sitting on his heels, John ran his fingers over the yellow letters, tracing down the marks where the paint had run. "I'm sure that the groundsman will clean it away when they find it. I wouldn't mind at all if it reappeared after that."

Arm outstretched to touch the headstone and it's message, John caught sight of the watch on his wrist. He rose quickly and turned to face Wiggins and Roisin.

"I have questions, but no time to ask them. I'm due on Brooklands Court in fifteen minutes. Can I ..."

"I can walk with you, Doctor Watson, if that's acceptable?"

"I don't want to take you away from your business," John said, hesitating.

"This is my business," Wiggins replied. "I came by when Roisin told me about Raz' artwork. Wanted to see the damage. Now that it's sorted, I'm at your service."

"I … That's … Thank you. Best get going, then. Roisin, it was a pleasure."

The homeless woman smiled and moved back to the bench. John glanced at Wiggins, and at the other man's nod, he set off at a brisk walk back through the cemetery and out onto the street.

"What do you want to know?" Wiggins asked as they fell into step.

"Let's start with how many of you there are, keeping watch at the cemetery."

"About twenty. There are more in the Network, but not all of us are mobile. Those of us who can get here have been taking shifts."

"How is that all being arranged? Do you have a … leader, I guess?"

"Well, now, I suppose that would be me," Wiggins said, somewhat self-consciously. "Mr. Holmes would come to me whenever he needed to coordinate a larger group for something. Not a leader so much as … someone who knows how to get us all in touch and organized."

"It was you that Angelo told, wasn't it? He asked me where Sherlock would be buried, and then said he'd let the Network know. He told you, and you told them."

"That's it in one, Doctor Watson."

"Please, call me John," he said, turning a corner.

"Of course, John," Wiggins agreed with a smile. "Angelo told me where Mr. Holmes would be buried, and I sent the word out so those that wanted to could pay their respects. Roisin was there the day the stone was installed, and saw a couple paparazzi hanging about. Not sure they would have done any mischief, but we started thinking on it ..."

"And realized that there might be some who would," John said with a grimace.

"Well, we thought it possible. So I organized us to be sure there is always someone watching."

"So about twenty of you have been keeping watch since the headstone was installed," John said, looking to Wiggins for agreement and continuing at the other man's nod. "Amazing."

John slowed his walk, glancing at the street numbers and coming to a stop in front of a small house. He turned to Wiggins and pulled out his wallet.

"Would you mind organizing a couple of things for me? For your watchers? For Sherlock?"

"What would they be, then?" Wiggins asked.

"Can you buy a can of Michigan yellow paint for Raz, and tell him I suggest he find a larger canvas for his most recent work? And tell him not to get caught," John said, pulling several twenty pound notes from his wallet and extending them to Wiggins.

"I can do that, and gladly," Wiggins agreed with a grin, accepting the bills. "What else? This is far too much money for a can of paint."

"That coffee today, for Roisin," John began, "I'd like to get one for each of the watchers so they've got a warm drink while they're, uh, keeping vigil. Can you arrange that?"

"That is very thoughtful of you, Doc … John. I'll make it happen. Thank you," Wiggins said with a wide smile.

"Thank _you_. Thank you, all," John replied, smiling. "Please let me know when that runs out. You know where to find me, or get word through Angelo."

"I do."

"Thank you, Wiggins," John said, then gave a quick nod and turned to the house where his appointment waited. He was smiling. He hadn't felt this good in _weeks_.


	9. Chapter 9: 8 weeks After

John sat across from Greg as they ate dinner at Angelo's, carefully sharing what he'd learned two days before about the Homeless Network's efforts to keep watch on Sherlock's grave.

"I seem to have commissioned a bit of art, as well," John said, smiling.

Greg grinned, pushing his plate away and picking up his nearly empty pint.

"Given who you were talking with, I'm not going to ask about the nature of the piece you requested, Mr. Patron of the Arts."

"Best not," John agreed, tapping his own glass to Greg's and draining it.

He had hardly placed his empty glass back on the table when a waiter appeared at his elbow bearing a tray filled with drinks. John looked up in surprise as a third pint was set on their table. As the waiter moved off to deliver drinks to other patrons, Detective Inspector Ian Dimmock dragged a chair over to join them. The young DI smiled at them as he took a seat.

"Sorry to intrude. You looked like you needed another round," Dimmock said, claiming one of the new pints for himself and taking a long pull.

John sat back and studied the young Detective Inspector. He hadn't seen Dimmock since he'd stopped by Baker Street to pay his respects after … After. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, as the waiter returned and cleared away their plates and empty glasses. When he'd gone, Greg cleared his throat.

"Dimmock, mate. I appreciate the gesture. But this is not going to look good for you, professionally. Consorting with the likes of us. Me. You do remember that I am under investigation?"

"About that," Dimmock replied, taking a quick pull at his beer. "You're not. Not anymore."

Greg slumped back in his chair in defeat.

"I expected a call," he said hoarsely. "When the Chief cornered me after I gave my statement to the inquiry board, he told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to return to the Yard until he called to tell me to come clean out my office. I'm wasn't allowed to participate in my own defense, and now it's over. And instead of a call, you get to be the bearer of bad news."

"Ah, no," Dimmock responded. "News, yes. Bad news, no."

John caught Greg's eyes across the table and lifted a curious eyebrow.

"Come again?" Greg asked, incredulous.

"I expect you'll be getting a call next week ending your 'gardening leave.'"

Watching Greg, John decided that the other man needed the beer that Dimmock had brought them. Badly. He reached over and slid one of the pints closer to the suspended DI. Greg clearly agreed with John's assessment, bringing the beer to his mouth for a couple long pulls.

"Okay," he said, putting down the glass and taking a deep breath, "Gimme."

"The Chief has gone on record several times stating that he was unaware of how often you called Sherlock in on cases, which only serves to highlight the fact that he hasn't been paying attention. Your paperwork clearly noted when Sherlock consulted for you, and several of the cases brought enough media attention that we held bloody press conferences for them. If he wasn't aware, it was willful ignorance or gross negligence. The Deputy Commissioner has decided that he's not terribly pleased, either way."

Greg snorted.

"He's also not pleased with the way the Chief is dragging out the investigation, when the rest of the inquiry panel is in agreement."

"What have they found, then?" John asked.

"Beyond the fact that Greg's actions involving Sherlock in cases were all above-board? Maybe he wasn't supposed to do it, strictly speaking, but he never hid it," Dimmock responded with a smile. "Which, alone, is enough for them to call him back into service."

"There's more?" Greg asked.

"While the main line of inquiry for the panel was whether or not your actions were ethical, they have also had to address whether or not the man you invited into investigations was in fact a criminal himself. Sherlock did have a known history with drugs, but so do many of our informants. It was the accusation that he was behind the crimes he helped solve that has been the sticking point."

"_'Has been'_?"

"Has been. Past tense," Dimmock confirmed. "They couldn't ignore the evidence."

"Evidence?" John asked, sitting up straight, focusing on Dimmock.

"Proof that Sherlock wasn't a fraud. He didn't fake his knowledge, nor did he commit the crimes himself."

"There's proof?" Greg asked.

"Well, of course there's proof," Dimmock retorted. "You didn't doubt him, did you?"

"Of course not," John cut in. "It's just … Moriarty would not have left proof ..."

"It seems that he tried to get rid of it, altering the digital records, but apparently he was not able to lay hand on the physical documents. They're in the archives at the Yard – dozens of hard copy reports."

"That man could get rid of anything, or anyone, he wanted. What did he miss?"

"Cold cases. The ones Greg brought out to occupy Sherlock when the modern criminal element wasn't … entertaining enough. The most recent cold case you gave him was from 2006. The oldest was from 1977."

"Dimmock, that is ... You did this? Mate, you are brilliant!" Greg chuckled.

John looked back and forth between the two detectives. Something tingled lightly in his chest. It wasn't happiness – he still hurt too much to remember what that felt like. But it was as if a tiny bit of his grief was dissipating. Sherlock might be gone, but the tarnish on his reputation was being polished away. The tosser would not have cared in the least about clearing his name, but it mattered to John more than he had allowed himself to admit. .

"I see that you understand where I'm going. So did the inquiry panel. Had to draw pictures for the Chief, and he still refused to concede that Sherlock, precocious lad though I'm sure he was, wasn't orchestrating homicides from his cot," Dimmock smirked. "But it wasn't just the cold cases. I pointed out that Sherlock solved my case last February – the one you called the 'Heartsick Valentine' on your blog, Doctor Watson – from his hospital bed. He'd been admitted the day before the homicide with injuries from a private case, and made his deductions based solely on crime scene photos."

"Amazing," John breathed.

"Then there's the bit that Donovan contributed," Dimmock said, his tone overly casual.

John studied Dimmock closely, considering the other man's words. He'd not spoken to Sally since the day at the bank, when he'd suggested that Sherlock's restraint in not making her relationship with Anderson public any sooner than he had disproved her theory that the consulting detective had been a psychopath. She'd returned the items from the safety deposit box by courier four days later, and hadn't been in touch since. He wondered if his words had shaken her out of her preconceptions, and made her truly _think_ about Sherlock and his actions. He found himself hoping that's what Dimmock's words meant.

Across the table, Greg was spluttering, choking on his beer.

"Donovan? Sergeant Sally Donovan? The same woman who threatened to take her accusations over my head? _She_ assisted in your defense of Sherlock?"

"That's the one, though to be fair, she was contributing to your defense, not his. It's the same thing, in the end, and she knew it, but I'm sure you were her motivation."

"How, exactly, did she 'contribute'?" John asked, intensely curious.

"She's been sitting in the gallery for the inquiry whenever she hasn't been out on a case. I think she'd realized the immensity of what she'd started, and was determined to see it through."

John nodded, taking a swallow of his beer and listening intently.

"She was there when I presented my argument with the cold cases files. I think she figured out what I meant even before the panel did. Certainly before the Chief. When I finished with the cold cases and put forward information about the 'Heartsick Valentine' case, she all but ran from the room, but she wasn't gone long. She was back about twenty minutes later, with an armload of paper. She got the lead inspector's attention, and asked permission to present further evidence. When he agreed, she turned over her notes on the locked room double homicide Sherlock solved while staying with you in hospital, John, and a serial killer case he solved via Skype when he was in France for some private investigation."

"Did she really?" Greg asked, gobsmacked.

"The Chief was apoplectic. He had seen her as an ally in his quest to discredit you and Sherlock."

"Can't really blame him for that. She was," Greg said, shaking his head and smiling.

"Well, she clearly isn't any more," John said, grinning. "Good on her."

"They're still investigating the other cases. They can't really do otherwise – solicitors have been hounding the courts to overturn the convictions based on Sherlock's deductions. They're having to go through everything all over again. And there's still the issue of Rich Brook – there's been no evidence found to suggest that he was an invention of Moriarty's, except that his claims that Sherlock was a fraud are being found to be false."

"There's more," John asserted, firmly.

"And we'll find it," Dimmock said.

"Yes, we will," Greg agreed.

They sat in a comfortable silence, nursing their beers.

"At any rate," Dimmock said, eventually, "Unless I'm very much mistaken, I expect you'll be back at your desk by the end of the week investigating the crime de jour. I also rather think that the Chief won't be behind his for much longer."

"Good. That's … good," Greg said, running a hand through his hair.

"No," John said, "It's brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."


	10. Chapter 10: 6 months After

**A/N: Many thanks to kate221b and sevenpercent :)**

* * *

John became aware of a smell of disinfectant. Insistent beeping sounds invaded his returning consciousness. Rough linens – that didn't do quite enough to keep out the cold – chafed his skin.

In hospital, then.

Nasal cannula delivering oxygen. Not intubated. Not too serious.

The detachment was fading. There was pain. It was still … distant, but definitely there.

As consciousness returned, John understood that his pain was being managed. Medication being delivered intravenously through a drip in his hand. The drugs had divorced him not only from the physical pain of his injuries, but also gave him enough distance from the emotional turmoil he had been caught up in since the fall to be able to _think_. Sherlock would have enjoyed the irony of his finding lucidity through drugs.

No. Not would _have_. Would.

Because that was the realisation the drug-induced clarity had brought him. His unconscious, subconscious mind, finally able to think around the pain, had seen through the deception. All the little things about the weeks leading up to Sherlock's fall that had been niggling at him for the last six months – his moods, his words, his more-erratic-than-normal actions – had fallen into place.

The mad bastard had been a fraud after all, at least, in his suicide.

_Sherlock was alive_.

John chuckled softly.

"John? Doctor Watson? You're, um. You're safe. In hospital," the voice was female. Tentative. Familiar.

He forced his eyes open. The lights were off, he noted, and the blinds angled to allow bright but softly diffused lighting from the windows. As his eyes adjusted he saw her, wearing her lab coat, her mousy brown hair pulled back in a pony tail. She looked anxious. Surely his wounds weren't that bad? They hurt even through the drugs, but not with blinding intensity.

"Molly?"

"That's me," she agreed with a tremulous smile, meeting his eyes only briefly before ducking her head down. "I didn't want you to wake up alone."

"Oh."

She flinched and looked back up quickly. "Oh! Oh, not that you have been. Alone, that is. Detective Inspector Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson visited you last night at UCH. And your sister came by this morning. But, well, they had to go and I just. Um. I didn't want you to wake up alone."

"Thank you, Molly," he said, touched at her concern. "UCH? But that's not where you ..."

"Do you ... Do you remember what happened?" she interrupted.

"Mugged, I think. On my way to catch the tube," he shrugged and hissed through his teeth as the movement put strain on injuries he'd not yet cataloged. "How bad is it?"

"Oh, not too bad, I think. I mean, I'm sure it's quite painful, but … Well. Cracked 7th and 8th ribs on the right side, badly bruised left kidney, concussion, some soft tissue damage in your right wrist, a few scrapes."

John nodded, then wished he hadn't.

"How long?" he asked.

"Um. About seventeen hours. You were admitted to UCLH just before 7 last night, and transferred around half three in the morning. It's nearly noon now."

"Transferred?"

"Yeah, um. You're at Bart's?" her statement was uncertain.

John closed his eyes. She wasn't questioning their location, she was uncertain of his reaction to being _here_. It had been standard procedure, before the … before. Some agreement between hospitals to shunt him or Sherlock here after any injuries they'd sustained had been dealt with, and they were stable. _Mycroft_. Clearly those arrangements had not been countermanded. Now, though, Bart's had a darker association. Molly was waiting to see how he might respond to being in the building from which Sherlock had jumped to his death.

Except that he wasn't dead. Right? That was right, wasn't it? The drugs had held the pain away, giving him the ability to focus, and he had seen through the trick. It wasn't just the drugs talking, was it?

John opened his eyes again and studied Molly intently. He had nothing like Sherlock's ability to read people, but there were signs there he was able to pick out. Molly was hugging herself as though to keep from reaching for his hand. Her anxiety was undiminished, he realized. It wasn't connected to his injuries, and seemed out of proportion to any fear of his reaction to being at Bart's. She was clearly conflicted about something. Torn between wanting to be a good friend to him, and … revealing something. What, though?

He frowned at her, briefly, connecting the dots between her and his drug-induced revelation. Something Sherlock had instructed her to do?

What would he have asked of her?

He'd have asked her help to fake his own death. And to keep it secret. There was no other reason that she should continue to be so uncomfortable as she tried to comfort him.

It wasn't just a delusion brought about by the drugs, then. John smiled at her. She smiled back, still nervous. John realised with a start the situation into which Sherlock's actions had put her. Not just her personal life, but also in her professional life ...

"Oh, Molly. I'm so sorry."

"John? Don't be – don't be silly. You've no reason to apologize to me."

"I might not, but he most certainly does. He won't do it, though. Bloody bastard, putting you in that position. Just wait until I get my hands on him."

"John? Sherlock's ... Well. You know Sherlock is dead, right? You're concussed ..." she was afraid.

"Not the concussion talking, Molly. I know."

"Good, then. Well, I mean, not good that he's dead, of course. But, good that you know."

"Yes, Molly. I know. I know what I saw … and what I didn't see."

She faltered, covering her hesitation by picking up the trigger for the patient controlled analgesia machine and placing it carefully in his left hand, folding his fingers around it.

"He's ... He's dead," she said, looking up from where her hand held his around the PCA controller, alarm clear in her expression.

"Yes, Molly," he agreed calmly, holding her gaze. "Thank you."

Her expression was conflicted, seeming to flicker between desire and despair. John wondered if it was hope. He watched as understanding dawned, saw her sag slightly with relief, then the tension returned, panic in her eyes.

"You can't ..." she began.

"I know. I won't," John agreed. "Was there … a reason?"

"Nothing beyond, um, necessity," Molly answered.

They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Except, John thought, that it wasn't actually that uncomfortable. He smiled at Molly, and she smiled back at him.

"All right, well. I'd better go. No rest for the wicked."

"Molly," John laughed, "You are the farthest from wicked of anyone I've ever met."

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" she asked with a cheeky smile.

"Yes," John answered.

Molly laughed, then turned to leave and stopped, hand on the door, facing away from John.

"He did you know."

"Did what?"

"Apologize."

"I will still throttle him."

"Maybe just … I dunno. Kick him in the shins?" she flashed him a smile over her shoulder. "I'll let Detective Inspector Lestrade know that you're awake."

"Ta, Molly."

John chuckled as the door closed behind Molly. He let his head sink back against the pillow, a smile lighting his face.

Sherlock was alive.

Clearly, he wasn't meant to know. And yet, as John puzzled over their last conversation, the phone call from the roof, he heard the conflict in the messages Sherlock was sending. He needed John to believe he was jumping, but he didn't really want him to.

Needed him to believe it – why? Because there was some danger involved in knowing. Danger to John? Or danger to Sherlock? Both? Either way, Molly's 'You can't …' confirmed that he must not let on that he knew.

But he did. He knew.

He chuckled again, amused, and vaguely terrified at the lunacy that was his life. His laughter got away from him, taking a slightly hysterical turn. He drew in a deep, ragged breath, and realized it was a sob.

The bastard was alive. And John _hurt._ He pushed the button on the PCA and focused on calming his breathing as the pain medication flowed through his IV. He didn't notice when he dropped off to sleep.

* * *

He woke to the sound of knitting needles clacking beside him. Opening his eyes, he blinked rapidly, squinting around the room. The lights had been turned on, and it was briefly hard to focus in the brightness.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson. I didn't hear you come in."

"I expect not, dear. You were asleep, and I didn't want to wake you. How are you, John?"

"A few bruises, Mrs. Hudson. Nothing serious," John answered, downplaying his injuries. Her frown indicated that she was not fooled.

"You ought to be more careful, John. Without him to ..." she trailed off, her expression a mix of pain and regret. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ..."

"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson. I wish he was here to watch my back, too. Where is the bloody tosser when you need him?" John asked, managing a slight smile. He was surprised to find that it still hurt to talk about him. To think about him. Knowing that Sherlock was alive didn't fix everything.

"Language, young man," Mrs. Hudson chided, smiling.

He cleared his throat a bit. "I'm sorry I haven't been around much, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, now. Don't apologize. I know it's been hard ..."

"It's been hard on you, too Mrs. Hudson. I should have been there for you."

She didn't answer, but he saw the moisture in her eyes as she reached to take hold of his uninjured left hand. He squeezed her fingers gently.

"Well, then. You'll just have to stop by to visit more often then." she said with a bright smile, though her voice wobbled a bit.

"Actually, when the discharge me, I wonder if … Well. I'd like … to come home. Would you let me come home?"

John hadn't known he was going to ask that until the words were out of his mouth. He hadn't even thought about moving back to 221B from the bedsit where he'd stayed for the last five months. He was surprised to hear his voice catch as he spoke.

"Oh, you dear boy," Mrs. Hudson replied, a tear slipping down her cheek as she stood, her knitting sliding from her lap and onto the floor unheeded, and wrapped an awkward hug around his shoulders. "That would make my Christmas."  
John hugged her back as best he could, without aggravating his ribs or kidney, and being careful of his right wrist in its brace.

"I don't know how soon I'll be back," he said when she stepped back. "I don't know how long they'll keep me here. And it might take a few days to get things organized to move."

"Don't you worry about it, John. You come when you're able. The flat will be ready for you."

"Oh, don't trouble yourself about dusting or anything, Mrs. Hudson. You're my landlady, not my housekeeper."

She chuckled as she sat back down, reaching to collect her knitting, folding it carefully, and putting it into her bag.

"I'm also not your cook, but that didn't stop me from baking you rock cakes this morning. I didn't know how badly you had been hurt, or whether or not you could eat, but I thought, if you could, these would be better than hospital food."

She pulled a small Tupperware container out of her bag and unsealed the lid. John couldn't help but grin at her as he reached for a cake.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, you are not my housekeeper, and not my cook. You are a saint."

"You're a dear to say so, John," she said with a smile, putting the container of rock cakes on the bedside table. "Though I'm quite sure that particular title belongs to you." "What?" John choked through a mouthful of cake.

"You, dear. You're the saint. For putting up with that ridiculous, insufferable prat of a man. All his experiments, playing the violin at all hours, and, oh, the way he talked to you. Calling you an idiot. Wasn't right, that. Not right at all."

"Language, Mrs. Hudson."

She laughed. John smiled to hear it, then he shook his head, winced, and continued.

"He talked to everybody that way, Mrs. Hudson."

"That's as may be, John, but he thought better of you. Should have told you so."

"Mrs. Hudson, you know we weren't ..."

"Oh, I know, dear, I know. I did wish, though, as close as you two were – but no matter. Still. He should have told you."

"Told me what?"

"That you were every bit as important to him as he was to you."

John found it hard to swallow past the lump in his throat. It hurt. The thought that he had meant something to Sherlock, but that the other man hadn't trusted him enough to tell him about the ruse he was planning – it hurt. John was surprised at the realisation that there was anger crowding into the euphoria he felt at knowing that his mad bastard of a flatmate was still alive. He pushed it away, focusing on the concerned face of the woman visiting him.

"You were important to him, too, Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes, dear," she said with a sigh that made John feel as though he'd let her down somehow by not understanding what she'd said. But then she smiled and stood, grabbing her bag and indicating a stack of folded laundry and toiletries on an empty chair. "All right, then. I've got a lot to do to be ready for your homecoming, so I'd best be on my way. I've brought you some pyjamas – they must be more comfortable that those awful hospital ones – and a change of clothes and a few bathroom items, from what you left in the flat. So, that's that, then. Enjoy the cakes. And … do hurry home, dear."

"I will, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you," John replied, smiling through the ache that clenched in his chest when he saw that the pile of clothing had Sherlock's shampoo bottle on top.

A few minutes – and another cake – after Mrs. Hudson had left, the door opened to admit a nurse, trailed a few seconds later by a doctor.

John didn't recognize the doctor, but the other man clearly knew that his patient was medically trained. He listened as the doctor listed his injuries with more detail than Molly had provided – his ribs were definitely cracked, but his lungs were clear. No significant contusions, no haemothorax. His back was tender, and his kidney was contused, his Foley output showing a measurable amount of blood. The doctor advised him that they'd keep him in hospital until his urine was clear. John grumbled a bit, hating the idea of days in hospital. He acquiesced as gracefully as he could manage when the doctor insisted on a full neuro exam, checking his pupillary response, reflexes, and coordination. The doctor seemed satisfied with the results of the exam and excused himself.

The nurse helped him move to the chair recently vacated by Mrs. Hudson, chatting brightly as she efficiently changed his bedding and helped him into the pyjamas Mrs. Huson had brought, before resettling him into the bed. He sent her off with a rock cake and a smile, then leaned back in his pillows and contemplated whether or not it was worth turning on daytime telly. The door opened again before he'd made up his mind.

"You know, John, if you wanted to see me outside of pub night, you just had to say so," Greg Lestrade said as he entered the room.

"Noted," John said with a wry smile.

"That said, your mugging has been the highlight of my week. All the same, though, don't do it again."

"Bit slow, then?"

"Busy shunting cases to the correct divisions for investigation," Greg answered, somewhat bitterly, putting a brown paper bag on the bedside table next to the container of rock cakes. "Bloody 'assessment team' nonsense. Never thought I'd miss cases that had me working 30 hour shifts without sleep. Yours is the first case in ages that I get to handle properly, from beginning to end. I don't even mind the paperwork."

"Glad I could liven up your week, but don't expect it to happen again," John replied.

"Good."

John saw Greg eying the cakes and waved his hand to indicate that the Detective Inspector was welcome to one. "Mrs. Hudson just brought them by. Help yourself."

"Thanks," Greg answered, grabbing a cake and collapsing in the hard plastic chair. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah, fine. The doctor says I can go home in a few days. They want to monitor my kidney. Bit bruised."

"You able to give a statement?"

"I'll do my best, but I didn't see much."

"Don't worry. We've already caught the guy, but we need to have all the proper paperwork filled out."

"You've already caught him? No investigation at all, and it's still the highlight of your week?"

"Yeah. Go figure. The kid who called 999 tagged him. He let himself get nicked violating an ASBO for you, you know."

"Tagged him? ASBO?"

"He told me to give you that," Greg said, indicating the paper bag.

John opened the bag and pulled out a used can of Michigan yellow spray paint.

"Raz," he said.

"That's him. He was … decorating … the wall around the corner from where you were being mugged. No particular message in his art – this time," Greg agreed, clearly not saying what he'd deduced about Raz' activities and John's knowledge of them. "Came around when he heard the ruckus, saw what was happening, and sprayed paint all over the face and clothes of the guy clobbering you."

"Clobbering?"

"Technical term."

"Of course."

"The guy ran away, and Raz went to check on you. Found your phone and dialed 999. Identified you to the operator and told her what he'd seen. Stuck around after the paramedics took you away so he could give his statement, even though it meant being brought up on charges, himself."

"Raz let himself get nicked for me?"

"He said it was only fair. You took an ASBO for him? But there's no record ..."

"Mycroft."

Greg held up his hands. "Don't tell me any more. Not now, anyway. Pub night, off duty."

John smiled. "You caught the guy, though?"

"Not too hard to find someone whose face and clothes are covered in neon orange spray paint. He had your wallet and watch on him. Confessed." He pulled an evidence bag containing John's wallet, watch and phone out of his coat pocket and tossed it over.

John sighed when he saw the cracked face on the watch. He looked back up to Greg and smiled.

"So, what do you need from me?"

"I need to know how this guy didn't end up with a broken nose for his troubles. At a minimum. I've seen you fight, John. I had a healthy respect for your right hook long before I heard you were taking out punching bags at the gym. What the hell happened?"

John took a deep breath and started from the beginning. "I had an interview at a surgery at four. It ran long. Takes longer to make excuses than to say yes, I guess," he said with mild bitterness. "Stopped to grab take away and realized I was going to miss the train, so I took a short cut to the station. Yes, I know, I should know better."

"Yeah, you should. No more shortcuts."

"Yes, sir."

"Still – you didn't even get a punch in?"

"It was cold. Had one hand jammed in my pocket, and a bag of take away Chinese in the other. He came up behind me and hit me over the head. I remember falling. Couldn't get my hand out of my pocket, landed badly," he held up his splinted right wrist. "He was kicking me before I was even all the way down, I think. Ribs, back, head. Lost consciousness – never even felt him take the wallet. I didn't see him."

Greg nodded, frowning.

"All right," he said, finally. "Thank God for Raz."

"Let me know his court date, would you?"

"Yeah, sure," Greg agreed, then took a deep breath and pushed up from the chair. "I should be going. More cases to hand off to someone else. Will I see you at the pub next week?"

"I'll call you," John answered, then held the tub of rock cakes out to Greg. "Another one for the road?"

"Ta, John. Take care, okay?"

"Will do."

John laid back on his pillows after the Detective Inspector left. Greg didn't know about Sherlock. Neither did Mrs. Hudson.

And he couldn't tell them.

He wondered how Molly had managed to keep her sanity while keeping the secret these last six months, being the only one who knew.

Or, was she? She clearly had helped him to fake the suicide and had kept his survival secret. But what would he be doing now, and more important, who would be helping him? Mycroft.

John swore softly under his breath and raised his left hand to massage his forehead. His head was aching, and he wasn't sure he could blame the concussion. He turned on the telly, hoping to distract himself with something mindless. He knew that he had a great deal to think about, but he decided to put it off. Just until thinking didn't hurt so much.


	11. Chapter 11: 24 weeks After

**A/N: Cookies for kate221b and sevenpercent!**

* * *

He should have expected it. He'd already figured that the pompous git had something to do with the private room he'd … enjoyed … during his over-long hospital stay. He really should have expected something like this upon his discharge.

He slid carefully into the back of the black car that waited at the hospital entrance. To his mild surprise, it wasn't one of Mycroft's minions in the back seat, but the man himself. John studied the elder Holmes brother, knowing he was being studied in turn. He said nothing, waiting. There was a slight twitch in the other man's jaw just before he broke the silence.

"Doctor Watson. I am pleased to see that you have recovered from your recent injuries."

"Were you ever going to tell me, Mycroft?"

"No," Mycroft answered, after a lengthy pause. The twitch in his jaw returned.

"I don't suppose you'll tell me now? Explain? Give me details?" John asked, his voice hard. "Tell me _why_?"

"I … can't." Mycroft replied, the admission clearly costing him.

"Then tell me this. Is he coming back?"

"There is … a plan."

John snorted. "Of course there is. One I'm supposed to follow blindly. Literally, blindly, because I don't know what it is. But that's the point, isn't it?"

Mycroft said nothing. John shook his head.

"Is it your plan … or his?"

"His."

"When did you know about it?"

"When we recovered his phone from the roof of St Bartholomew's."

John took a bit of grim comfort from the fact that Mycroft had been taken in by Sherlock's charade, even if only briefly.

"He left you something on the phone. Why didn't he leave anything for me? He should have talked to me, Mycroft. Whatever his great plan was, I could have helped him. Why didn't he trust me?"

"John," Mycroft answered slowly. "Sherlock does trust you. In fact, he's trusting you to do something for him. Something he's never asked of anyone before."

"What's that, then?"

"He is aware that his actions have caused you not inconsiderable pain. He is trusting you to … forgive him."

Mycroft's words stopped John cold.

"Forgive ..." he breathed, then he let out a humorless laugh. "He asks for a lot, your brother."

"Of you, John, he asks everything, and you've never disappointed him."

"Yeah, well. There's a first time for everything."

"I sincerely hope that will not be the case."

John felt the conflict gnawing at him. The relief that had come from learning that Sherlock was alive made him tingle all over, a feeling akin to joy sparkling just under his skin. But deeper, buried in his heart, were six months of pain and grief and anger. Sherlock's reasons for putting him through hell would have to be bloody good ones.

John cleared his throat, and changed the topic.

"How did you know I'd discovered his trick?" he asked, then held up his hand. "No wait. Don't tell me. The room was bugged. That's why you had me transferred to Bart's and gave me a private room. That's why you've always had us transferred to Bart's."

The raised eyebrow was Mycroft's only response.

"And have you already bugged Baker Street?"

"The devices already in place have been … re-activated."

"Fine," John said shortly. "Why didn't he tell me?"

"Would you have stayed behind if you knew?"

"Of course not."

"They, my dear Doctor Watson, you have answered your own question. It was, and remains, imperative that you remain here."

"He still could have told me."

"If he had told you, and managed to convince you to stay, I'm afraid that your acting abilities ..."

"My acting abilities?" John cut in. "They were good enough to fool you, and he knows it."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up, his jaw twitching. John sighed, his anger dissipating as he realized that he may have slipped up.

"I'm obviously not going to tell you about it, Mycroft, so don't bother asking. Figure it out yourself, or ask him."

Mycroft did not respond. John kept his face impassive and allowed the elder Holmes brother to study him. Eventually Mycroft inclined his head slightly. Not conceding, but putting the matter aside for the moment.

John sighed again and turned to look out the window. "I understand what is expected of me, Mycroft. And I'll do it, putting my 'acting skills' to good use. I just need one promise from you."

"And what would that be, Doctor Watson?"

"You have to tell me if there comes a time when I should ..." his voice shook, but John forged ahead, watching the other man's reflection in the window, "stop."

Mycroft's expression did not shift, though John thought he saw a faint twitch in his jaw.

"We don't know how long this will take, John."

"It will take as long as it takes, Mycroft," John said, turning back to face him directly. "And you will tell me if I should stop."

After a moment Mycroft nodded. John allowed his head to sink, resting his chin on his chest as he tried to breathe normally.

"Will you tell him?" he asked, not looking up.

"Do you want me to?"

"I … no. Probably not. Bit of a distraction, I should think."

"How will you proceed?" Mycroft asked.

"I've got a few ideas. Things that will look normal for … a person in my position."

"If you require ..."

"Nope, nothing, Mycroft," John cut him off. "Except that you tell me ..."

"I will keep you informed, Doctor Watson."

"Good, then. That's good," John said looking up to meet Mycroft's eyes. "And Mycroft, just so you know, I really, really mean it when I say I hope I won't be hearing from you."

A hint of a smile touched the other man's face as the car slowed to a stop.

"Good day, Doctor Watson."

"Watch your fingers, Mycroft," John said as he opened the door and stepped out, turning to glare back into the interior of the car. Mycroft met his eyes and nodded, not speaking, keeping his hands folded carefully in his lap. John slammed the car door before turning and storming away as angrily as his injuries would let him.

John carefully climbed the few steps to the door of the building where slept. Not lived. He watched the sleek black car pull away from the kerb in the reflection of the glass door. He didn't turn around to watch it go.

Sherlock was alive. Molly had confirmed it already, but hearing it from Mycroft made it real. It also made John angry.

He drew in a deep breath, pushing the anger and everything connected with Sherlock's fake suicide to the side as he opened the door. He couldn't afford to think on it, not in public. Not if he was to act convincingly.

Once inside the building he moved to the stairs, pausing at the bottom to shoot off a quick text.

_Mike. You available to help shift boxes? Moving back to 221b. JW_

After hitting send John put his hand to the railing, looked up, and sighed. Three flights of stairs lay between him and his room. His injuries weren't complaining – much – but he could feel them, and he knew that climbing the stairs would not be in his best interest. He sighed and moved to push the button for the lift.

His phone buzzed with a response while he waited for the lift doors to open.

_When?_

_As soon as is convenient. JW_

John sent his reply as he stepped into the lift, pushing the button for the third floor. He stared at the numbers above the door as they lit in sequence, marking his slow progress upward. When the doors opened he moved down the hallway, fumbling for his key. He had just stepped through the door when his phone buzzed again.

_This weekend? I can come over after I drop the wife at the train station. Saturday? Around 5._

_That'd be fantastic. Pizza and beer? JW_

_Chinese. And beer._

_Thanks. See you then. JW_

John closed the door.

* * *

**A/N: If you're curious what John is hiding from Mycroft, you can find out over in my story 'Double Bluff'. **


	12. Chapter 12: 171 days After

**A/N: Biscuits for kate221b!**

* * *

John spent the following afternoon giving testimony at Raz's hearing. It was the second time the young street artist had been caught violating his ASBO, and the courts were not minded to be lenient. John's statement swayed the judge's decision enough that Raz escaped jail time, though he was required to pay a stiff fine. John met the young man outside the financial office and handed him a receipt showing the fine paid in full. He also slipped him a twenty pound note with a quiet word about yellow paint and not getting caught again. Raz gave him a broad grin before darting away, leaving him behind on the courthouse steps.

The next day John spent time sitting with one of the Homeless Network at the cemetery. They'd continued their vigil for more than six months. John wondered how much longer they'd carry on, especially with the season turning cold and wet. He wasn't sure if their watch was necessary any longer, given that the paparazzi had stopped following him about weeks back, when a new scandal caught the public's attention. On slow news days the newspapers still printed stories about the 'false detective' and his suicide, but they were few and far between. The chance that vandals would break into the cemetery to do mischief to Sherlock's headstone was now reduced to nearly zero. John made a mental note to ask after Wiggins, to see what the man knew about the expected duration of the graveside surveillance. He'd have to think about providing blankets and umbrellas, in addition to money for hot beverages, for the watchers who braved the weather to sit by Sherlock's grave if they extended their efforts into winter.

On Saturday morning, John scrounged a few boxes and began packing. He hadn't brought much besides his clothes with him when he left Baker Street, always assuming he'd be going back. Packing took more time than he expected. His right hand was still in a brace, and his back and ribs still sore. Moving with care, he boxed up the books he'd accumulated in the last five months, and tried to tackle the pantry, but reaching into the cupboards and pulling down canned goods was causing a dull throb in his back, and a milder ache in his ribs. He sighed and decided that he'd have to leave that bit of packing to Mike.

John looked at his watch. It was just half three. He poked around in the kitchen for the menu from the Chinese place down the street and called in an order for delivery. Then he dug out his old duffel bag and started emptying drawers of clothing into it.

It was slow going. One-handed, he had some trouble holding the duffel open. And repeatedly reaching into the drawer with his left hand was pulling at his injured back. He gritted his teeth and finished loading the duffel, deciding that even if he left his jumpers and jeans for Mike to throw into his suitcase, he was going to deal with packing his pants himself.

John was distracted from his efforts when the buzzer rang just over an hour later, announcing the arrival of the take-away Chinese food. He had just finished paying the delivery man when Mike Stamford arrived.

"Mike, good to see you," John said, smiling, waving the other man in while he struggled to juggle his wallet, the bag of take-away in his left hand, bumping the door with his hip to push it closed.

"And you, John. Missed you at the pub last week. Heard you were busy being mugged."

"I'll try to prioritise a bit better next month," John answered, putting the food down on the desk and moving to pull a couple plates out.

"See that you do," Mike replied, chuckling, moving past John to the fridge and grabbing a couple beers. "So. Moving back to Baker Street."

"Yeah, well. Seems I live with his ghost no matter where I am. Might as well be home."

"I suppose so," Mike agreed. "Should I be keeping an eye out for a flat share for you?"

"No, Mike. That won't be necessary."

"Job at the surgery pays well, then."

John laughed hard at that. He wrapped arm around his chest to ease the ache in his ribs.

"It didn't, no."

"Didn't?"

"I was sacked about a month ago. Couple days after our last pub night, in fact."

"What? Why?"

"A patient complained. Didn't trust me to diagnose his health issues if I couldn't be trusted to have seen through Sherlock. It wasn't the first time. Or the fiftieth." John explained. "Sarah didn't want to let me go, but she knew that it would be best for the surgery if she did."

John watched Mike's face twist in anger and sympathy.

"'Seen through Sherlock.' Idiot. Nothing to see through."

"Preaching to the choir, mate," John replied.

"So, what are you going to do, then? What have you been doing?"

"I spent the first week moping a bit," John admitted. "The next two weeks I looked for work. Sarah gave me a sterling reference, but that only led them to ask why she'd let me go. When they realized that I was _that_ John Watson … Well, turns out that clinics are wary of hiring someone with my … notoriety."

Mike snorted. "Their loss."

"Ta," John said, smiling. "And then the week after that, I got mugged and spent a few days sitting on my arse in hospital."

"And as soon as you get out you're moving to a higher rent flat with no income, and you don't want me to look for a flatmate for you? Are you sure you're not still concussed?"

"It was, ah, in his will."

"Sherlock left you Baker Street?"

"He left instructions for his estate to continue paying his share of the rent there until I say otherwise."

"Until you say otherwise?" Mike said, a bite halfway to his mouth. "What if you never do?"

John understood what Mike was too polite to ask directly.

"It's good of you to worry for me, Mike. It's fine, though. If I never say otherwise, it's taken care of."

"Good, then," Mike said slowly, chewing. "That's good. Though, if he was able to leave you a half share of the rent in perpetuity, the prat ought to have paid the whole amount."

"I suspect he didn't want me to hang about the flat all day, moping, after ... If I still had to come up with my half, I'd have to go out, work, be with people. Didn't want me to be alone."

John watched a bitter expression twist Mike's face.

"If he didn't want you to be alone, he shouldn't have fucking _jumped_!" Mike exclaimed, snapping one of the chopsticks as he clenched his hand into a fist. "I'm sorry," he said immediately, dropping the broken utensils and rubbing his face with both hands. "I'm sorry, John."

"Don't apologize, Mike. I'm angry with him, too."

"Yeah, well. You're doing a better job dealing with it than I am, apparently."

"You only think that because you don't see me at the gym every morning, beating the bloody hell out of the punching bags."

Mike laughed humorlessly, shaking his head.

"Are you okay, John? Really?"

"I don't know, Mike. I like to think so, most days."

"And on the other days?"

"On other days I think maybe I need to find a new therapist."

"What happened to the old one?"

"She. Well. She made me admit that he was gone. I mean, not admit it – I could hardly deny it, having watched him jump, but … you know. Made me say it out loud. But then," John sighed. "she wanted me to consider what the papers were saying. She thought my refusal to entertain the idea that he was a fake was holding me back, and she wouldn't let up, insisting that until I could admit that he might have been a charlatan I wouldn't be able to heal. She couldn't separate his suicide from the accusations of him being a fraud, allowing me to acknowledge the one while refusing the other."

"Oh, for the love of buggering fuck," Mike exclaimed.

"Couldn't have put it better, myself," John agreed. "The way she pushed at me to consider the possibility exposed her own opinions in the matter. She may have thought that she was helping me face a difficult truth, but she was clearly looking for affirmation of her own beliefs. If I – who had been his closest friend – was willing to acknowledge the idea that he had been a fraud, it would be enough to confirm it for her. I told her to piss off, and I haven't been back."

"The hell with going back," Mike said, clearly angry."She's supposed to help you through your grief, not twist it around to support her agenda."

"Yes, well. Not every morning at the gym is about working out my anger with Sherlock."

"Right. Well. I may be able to help with more than packing, if you're interested."

John quirked an eyebrow in an invitation for Mike to continue.

"You know Bart's is upgrading it's services? The Minor Injury Clinic is being overhauled, turning it into an Urgent Care Centre. They're hiring, if you think you could stand being, well, there."

John took a deep breath. In the six months since Sherlock had jumped, he hadn't been back to Bart's. Not until he'd been transferred there after the mugging. Inside the building, it was a hospital like any other. Anonymous. Mycroft's car had been waiting for him when he was discharged, so he'd never really had the chance to look around. To see where Sherlock had landed. Knowing that the fall hadn't killed him didn't erase the image of him, broken and bleeding, on the sidewalk outside the hospital.

"I know it's a lot to consider," Mike said gently.

John shook his head. "I think I could do it, Mike. Once I'm inside the building, it could be any hospital, yeah? But I come with all sorts of baggage. They won't want me."

"I could put in a good word. And I'm sure Molly would, too. I don't think it'll be necessary, though, to tell you the truth."

"Oh? How's that, then?"

"I'm not the only one to remember you from back in the day, John. You were top of the class. You made an impression. Did you think I recognized you in the park that day for no reason?"

"That was a long time ago, Mike," John demurred.

"More recently, then, how many times did you accompany Sherlock to hospital since you've been back? Not to the labs, I mean. When he was transferred in as a patient."

"Plenty. Too many," John snorted.

"And every time you were there, you ran interference for him. Hell, you ran interference for him when _you_ were the one in the bed. The nurses in the private ward worship you. The doctors who had to deal with Sherlock's injuries were impressed with your patience, your medical knowledge, and your professional respect. You have many admirers on the staff, there. I've enjoyed bragging rights about knowing you."

"You're not serious."

"I am."

John shook his head, chuckling, then looked up in surprise when the buzzer by the door sounded.

"You expecting anyone?" Mike asked, standing and moving to push the intercom buzzer. "Yes?" he spoke into the grill.

"Delivery for John Watson," came back a female voice.

Mike looked over at John, who shrugged.

"Come on up. Number 317," Mike said as he pushed the button opening the door downstairs, and moved back to the table. "Delivery?" he asked.

"No idea," John replied, toying with the last bits on his plate. He cleared his throat, "There's still having to deal with the press, and with patient complaints," he said, returning to the subject of their disrupted conversation.

"Bart's is well equipped to deal with the press. Far better than the free-standing clinics you've been approaching," Mike replied. "As for patient complaints, well. I think you'll find that the staff at Bart's are less likely to give credence to reports of Sherlock being a fraud. They'd be happy to bend your ear with stories about him being a complete arse, but many, if not most, there, knew him to be genuine. If only because he deduced who they were sleeping with because of the creases in their coats, or the stains on their ties, or the way they tied their shoes. Patient complaints of that nature would be summarily dismissed."

John considered. "I guess ..." he said slowly, "I'm interested."

A sharp knock interrupted further conversation. Both men stood, John moving around the table while Mike went to open the door.

"Good evening, Doctor Stamford," the woman at the door said, brushing past him as she walked into the room to pause in front of John. "Doctor Watson," she said pleasantly, handing him a garment bag without looking up from her mobile, texting effortlessly one-handed.

John took the hanger she offered him instinctively. Once she'd handed her parcel over she turned on her heel and made her way back to the door.

"Anthea," John said shortly.

She stopped in the doorway and turned back to him, raising her eyes from her phone, eyebrow quirked in question.

"I told him … I told him I didn't want anything from him but news. Tell me," he paused, taking a deep breath. "Tell me that there is no news," his hand on the hanger was white-knuckled. He forced himself to relax his grip.

"There is no news, Doctor Watson," she confirmed, gently offering a sincere smile.

"Good. That's good," John replied with a sigh of relief which he quickly tried to stifle when he caught Mike's puzzled look. He looked down, noticing the name of a Jermyn Street tailor on the bag. "I still don't want this. I don't want anything from him."

"It's not from him."

"It's not … Does he know about it?"

"He knows about everything, John. But it's _not from him_," Anthea repeated, emphasizing her words. "Given the fate of your previous suit, and the fact that you appear to still be seeking employment, _I_ thought that a replacement might be welcome."

"My previous suit," John repeated, puzzled. "Oh, hell. I hadn't even realised. They cut it off me in hospital," he groaned. His eyes flicked down to the garment bag hanging from his hand and back up to Anthea. He cleared his throat. "I … Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said with a smile, then nodded politely to Mike and walked out the door.

Mike closed the door behind her, turning a befuddled expression on John. John shrugged, and after a moment, Mike nodded, going along with it.

"New suit, then," Mike said genially, moving to clear the plates.

"So it would appear," John replied, zipping the bag open a bit to see the caramel-on-blue pinstriped jacket and trousers with a pair of shirts – a pale blue, almost white, cotton, and a silk whose caramel matched the light striping on the suit.

"Judging by what your friend, Anthea, was wearing, it'll be far too posh to wear when you come by my office Monday."

"Too 'posh'? It's a suit. A very nice suit, true," John acknowledged, then, grasping what Mike had said, continued, "Wait, Monday?"

"Come by for lunch? I'll introduce you to the right people, see if we can't get you on staff by the time the Centre launches. Supposed to open shortly after the new year."

"That would be … Thanks, Mike. That would be fantastic," John said, smiling.

"I may also have a name for you. Therapist. If you're really looking for one."

"The punching bag at the gym is really only an outlet for anger. There's a bit more to all of this than just that," John replied, zipping the garment bag back up and laying it over the back of a chair.

"I'll give you her contact info when you come for lunch on Monday."

"Ta, Mike."

"Well, then, let's get you moved, shall we?"


	13. Chapter 13: 33 Weeks After

**A/N: Chocolate for sevenpercent and kate221b!**

* * *

John paused outside the door to the morgue, surprised to hear laughter on the other side. He pushed the door open and smiled.

"Oh. Hi, John. How's your first week going?" Molly asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and smiling broadly.

"Great, thanks," he replied with a smile. "Hey, Greg," he continued, greeting the Detective Inspector.

"John," Greg responded. "I hadn't realized you'd started working here already."

"The Urgent Care Centre opened on the fourteenth. I was here for the first patient. Kitchen accident – stab wound to the hand in dire need of a plaster and a couple of paracetamol. What brings you by?"

"Mrs. Hallie Noughton," Greg answered, indicating a body draped by a sheet. "Came by for her lab results."

"Insulin overdose," Molly supplied.

"Accidental?" John asked.

"Not likely, as she wasn't diabetic."

"Murder, then?"

"Seems likely," Greg agreed.

"Injected in the back, between the shoulder blades," Molly said.

"Between the ..."

John didn't even think about it, grabbing gloves out of a box on a nearby table and moving to pull the sheet aside, snapping them on and examining the body. After a cursory glance across her abdomen and torso, he moved down to the end of the table and looked at her feet, then, stepping back to the side he lifted her right hand, inspecting the musculature of the arm and shoulder. Moving to the other side of the table, poised to lift her left arm, he became aware of the deafening stillness in the room. He dropped his hand and took a measured step back, head down as he drew in deliberate, slow breaths.

"Sorry," he said, not lifting his head.

"What … ah, that is," Greg started cautiously, "What were you looking for?"

John took a deep breath and looked up, not at Greg or Molly, but resting his eyes on the body of Hallie Noughton as he purposefully stripped off his gloves.

"She kept in shape, obviously spent time at the gym. Not likely a runner – flat footed. Her musculature is evenly toned across upper and lower limbs. A swimmer would have more pronounced development of the shoulders. At a guess, I'd say she practiced yoga, which would make her fairly flexible. She may well have been able to reach her back."

"You think it was suicide?" Greg asked.

"I just … wouldn't rule it out," John answered slowly. "The placement of the injection is misleading. It's … intentional. If it was a homicide, the murderer could have injected her anywhere. The fact that it's on a part of the body that most people couldn't reach suggests that it was supposed to look like murder."

"Supposed to look like murder," Greg repeated. "Trying to frame someone?"

"Perhaps. Or maybe it wasn't about looking like murder so much as _not_ looking like suicide."

"Insurance pay off?"

John shrugged noncommittally, finally looking up to meet Greg's eyes.

"If she did this herself, something drove her to it. Probably had just received bad news. You're probably already running her financials. Check her medical history, too. "

"I'll pass it along, John."

"You're not working the case?"

"No. Still on HAT duty," Greg responded, his tone filled with annoyance. "I'll hand the investigation over when I get back to the Yard. I think Dimmock's up."

"It'll be soon, Greg," Molly soothed, a hand resting briefly on his arm.

"It's already been too long," John said, shaking his head. "Idiots."

"Ta," Greg said with a tight smile.

John watched as the DI's expression eased to a more genuine smile when he turned his attention to the pathologist. He quirked an eyebrow up, but neither Greg nor Molly noticed it.

"Right, well. I'd best be going. See you later, John. Molly," Greg said, nodding to them as he left.

John watched the DI leave, then closed his eyes. He heard movement and felt a gentle pressure as a hand closed on his elbow. Opening his eyes, he saw Molly peering at him with concern, tugging him lightly and guiding him to a seat. He slumped into it, gratefully.

"That was … good," she said.

"That was … I don't know what that was," John sighed.

"It was good," Molly said firmly, moving away from John to pick up a paper cup of coffee from a table.

"Was it?"

"Yes."

"Oh," John said, scrubbing his face with his hands. "I miss him," he said softly.

"I know. I do, too," she said, sipping her coffee.

"You don't hear … anything?" he asked carefully.

"No. He left a message, once. About a month after. Not sure exactly what it meant, but it was clear that he'd been in."

"Careless of him."

"No, I don't think so. It was obvious only to me."

"Oh?"

"It was lipstick. A new tube left right on my desk, in the exact shade I wore the day he met you."

"I remember that," John said slowly. "You came in with coffee and he asked why you weren't wearing it any more, yeah?"

"Yeah," she laughed. "I'd tried to ask him out not long before you arrived. I'd put lipstick on, more as armour than as make-up. I don't know if he deliberately misinterpreted me or not, but when I suggested getting a coffee, he told me how he liked it, and went back to work, expecting that I'd bring it to him. And I did – after I wiped off the lipstick."

"I'm sorry, Molly."

"Oh, don't be. It's fine."

John looked at her and realized that she meant it. It was fine. Whether or not it had been then, it was, now.

"Greg brought you that coffee," he said suddenly.

Molly looked startled.

"How did ..."

"It's not from the machine down the hall, or the hospital canteen. It's proper coffee, from the shop upstairs in the foyer. You've been here for hours – ate lunch at your desk," he said, waving a hand at the empty crisps package and the crust of a sandwich in the bin by her desk, "so you didn't go up to get it. Someone brought it for you. Judging by the way you're shifting it from hand to hand, it's still hot, so it was brought to you recently. Not many people visit the morgue. I didn't bring it down, so it must have been Greg."

"That's … amazing," Molly breathed, then she gave him the brightest smile he'd ever seen grace her face. "Do you know what's more amazing?"

"What's that?"

"He knew exactly how I like it."

John grinned as Molly just smiled and sipped at her coffee and damn near glowed.

"Was there something you needed, John?" she asked after a while.

"Hmm?"

"I'm guessing that you came down for a reason?"

"Oh! Yes, I did. You!"

"Me, what?"

"Mike's insisting that we head to the pub tonight to celebrate my first week on the job. I've asked Sarah, and I'm hoping you'll join us, too."

"Bit odd to celebrate your new job with your old boss, isn't it?" she asked with a smile.

"But not odd to celebrate it with my friends. Will you come?"

"Yes, John. I'd love to."

* * *

John had to laugh at the expression on Sarah's face when Molly revealed her punchline. Morgue humor was darker than most folks – doctors included – found comfortable. Mike bumped Sarah's shoulder and commiserated with her while John smiled at Molly in appreciation of the joke.

Looking across the table at her, he saw movement at the bar across the room and frowned. Sally Donovan was there, collecting two glasses one-third filled with a dark amber liquid. As she picked them up from the bar, she turned and caught John's eye, then began moving purposefully in his direction.

Molly noticed his focus and looked over her shoulder as the Detective Sergeant approached.

"Oh, Sergeant Donovan," she said, flustered. "Hello."

"Doctor Hooper," Sally replied, nodding to the others at the table in greeting. "John. May I drag you away from your friends for a bit?"

John looked at her, curious. He shot a quick glance around the table and saw similarly intrigued looks on the faces of his companions. Mike and Sarah didn't know Sally, but they'd heard of her and knew that her relationship with John had been unfriendly at best, openly antagonistic at worst. Sarah indicated that he should go with Donovan with a tilt of her head and a smile.

"Off you go. Bring the next round when you come back," she said.

"Oi! It was your turn!" he protested, but slid out of his seat to stand next to Sally. "Shall we?" he asked, indicating a pair of empty bar stools along the wall.

Sally led the way, putting the two glasses down before sitting and hooking a foot around a rung. She looked at him expectantly. He sighed and sat.

"What's all this, then?" he asked.

"It's a drink," she said, picking up her glass and sipping, a grimace of pleasure crossing her face.

"Bit stronger than coffee," he replied.

"It's not a coffee kind of conversation."

"What kind of conversation is it?" he asked, picking up the glass and sniffing. It was clearly a very good scotch. He sipped appreciatively. Twenty years, he guessed. Single malt.

"The kind where you celebrate and I get drunk," she answered.

John put the glass down and sat up straighter. She gave him a resigned look and reached for her bag, pulling out a file. Putting it on the counter, she flipped it open to reveal the CV of Richard Brook.

"His name wasn't Richard Brook," she said, reclaiming her glass.

Several snide comments tried to claw their way out of John's mouth, but he clamped his jaw and waited.

"It wasn't James Moriarty, either."

"What?"

"He was Irish."

"I know he was Irish. I had his bloody accent lilting away in my head thanks to the earpiece accessorising the latest in semtex fashion wear," he retorted, picking up his glass and taking a drink, enjoying the burn.

Sally flinched slightly at the reminder. She tapped her finger on the photo on the CV.

"He was Irish. But the name 'James Moriarty' is English. It's Anglicized."

John put the glass back down, staring at Sally disbelievingly.

"So, Seamus ..."

"Muireartaigh," she finished.

"Oh, God," John breathed. "Bloody fucking hell."

Sally raised her glass in salute and took a drink. They sat in silence, sipping their scotches.

"Okay, then," John said, finally. "Seamus Muireartaigh. What can you tell me?"

Sally took a deep breath, clearly bracing herself.

"He was born in Belfast in 1975. Catholic family. His parents were involved in the provisional IRA in a minor capacity. Primarily they passed information, but occasionally they were involved in trafficking supplies."

"The IRA? Really?" John mused as he flipped through the documents in the file. He paused at a photograph showing Moriarty – Muireartaigh – as a child, smiling brightly as he hugged a plush rabbit. The next photo in the stack showed him as a glowering teen, menace in his eyes.

"At the urging of his teachers, both Cambridge and Oxford invited him to come to interview in 1988. Both universities were initially hesitant about considering him for admission because of his age. They rethought that decision when one of his teachers submitted a copy of original equations Moriarty had been working on. He came to England over the holiday break and met with officials from both Unis, after which his family spent Christmas in Brighton, with his mother's sister."

"Brighton? That's where Carl Powers was from, yeah?" John asked.

"They met at the Prince Regent Swimming Complex," Sally confirmed with a nod. "They didn't get on. Powers' family was Irish Protestant, and apparently Carl dropped a few slurs against Catholics and the IRA among his taunts regarding Muireartaigh's lack of swimming ability. Nothing came of it, then. Muireartaigh's family returned to Ireland before the new year. He received offers from both Cambridge and Oxford, took his A levels in May of 1989, and got the highest scores recorded that year for maths. He accepted a place at Cambridge, and his mother took him to spend the summer in Brighton, enrolling him in several summer programmes at various recreational facilities, including the swim complex." Sally paused, her mouth twisting bitterly. "Apparently, his mother wanted him to have one last summer of being a kid before heading off to Uni at fourteen."

"And while he played about that summer, he took his revenge on Powers for their Christmas encounter," John said.

"Powers, and a few others," Sally agreed.

"Others?"

"Two kids, two adults. All the victims had ties to Powers or the swim club."

"Fatalities?"

"No. There was a broken leg, a mugging, a sex scandal, and a job loss, but Powers seems to be the only one he killed."

"With botulinum toxin," John said, shaking his head. "How the hell did a fourteen year old kid get his hands on botulinum toxin? In 1989?"

"The IRA," Sally replied.

"You know, I wasn't really expecting an answer to that," John admitted, taking a sip of his scotch. "Tell me."

"There was an outbreak of botulism in Northern Ireland in 1988, in cattle that'd been fed contaminated chicken litter. The Veterinary Medicine department at Queen's University worked together with the AFBI veterinary lab in Stormont to determine the source and to contain the outbreak. There was a break-in at the University and a case of samples was stolen. It was found, a week later, in the possession of an IRA collaborator. One vial was missing from the case, never recovered."

"And you believe that Muireartaigh took it?"

"The collaborator who was arrested with the stolen samples was his neighbor."

"Circumstantial at best."

"They ran DNA tests on the bacteria in the sample Holmes took from Carl Powers' shoelaces and compared them with the batch in the stolen case. They matched."

"Oh."

Sally took a large mouthful of her scotch, wincing slightly, clearly waiting for John to absorb the information.

James Moriarty was Seamus Muireartaigh, an Irishman from Belfast with IRA connections, who had stolen a Clostridium botulinum sample and used it to kill a boy who laughed at him before going off to school at Cambridge.

"You have more?" John asked. Sally nodded.

"He matriculated from Cambridge with a degree in maths in 1993 at the age of seventeen. He earned his MPhil in 1994 and his DPhil in 1997, at the age of 21. His dissertation on binomial theorem applications got lots of attention from the maths crowd. He had job offers from several UK universities, and more than a handful across Europe and the US. He accepted two of them."

"Two?" John asked, flipping back through the file until Richard Brook's CV sat on top again.

"He was an associate lecturer at Leeds, and a visiting fellow at Durham, in 1998. He had a flat in Richmond and commuted south to Leeds three times a week, and up north to Durham twice a week. He spent the next eighteen months teaching, and researching ways to help fix Y2K issues ..."

"More likely he was breaking the Y2K fixes," John muttered, draining his scotch and staring accusingly at the empty glass.

"In all likelihood," she agreed, "yes. In any event, he spent a year and a half holding positions at two universities, researching computer bugs, and writing a book. Something about the trajectories of asteroids. After his book was published – and did not garner critical acclaim – he apparently became disenchanted with academia. He abandoned both positions in April of 2000, several weeks before the end of the year. He returned to Belfast, setting up in a penthouse flat with no known source of income."

"I guess crime does pay."

"So it would seem. In the years Muireartaigh spent at Cambridge, there were 121 police reports filed for crimes ranging from harassment to assault to rape that can all be connected back to him. The victims were classmates, or professors, or staff at the library or the local coffee shop, who had all had run ins with him at some point. Three questionable deaths might find their way to his doorstep, as well," Sally said in a leaden tone. "There were seven deaths in Leeds, Richmond, and Durham, during his time there. And a corresponding number of reports for assault."

"And the numbers in Belfast went up when he returned there, didn't they?"

"The numbers did go up, but it's harder to tie him to the increases." Sally responded. "He was getting better at hiding his connection to the victims."

"No," John disagreed. "I don't think so. I think he'd set up shop – the 'Dear Jim' consultant criminal enterprise, and the accidents he arranged were for others unconnected to him."

"I don't doubt it," she said, slamming back the last of her scotch and shuddering. "He moved to London in 2008, still using his given name for his bank accounts, rental contracts, credit cards … But that's when he started using the name James Moriarty. There are no records, but reports ..."

She put her glass down and ran her finger over the rim. John could see the tension in the set of her shoulders. He knew that the glare she was directing toward her empty glass was defensive – she expected censure from him, believed that he found her culpable. She clearly thought herself guilty.

He sighed.

"This wasn't you, Sally. He took a lot of people in. He was very convincing."

"You can't ..." she began, not looking up, her shoulders tensing further. "Don't. I don't deserve your understanding. Your forgiveness."

"Does it help if I say I'm still quite angry with you?" he asked.

She glanced up, questioningly. "Are you? You've been nothing but kind to me, ever since … and despite everything. Why?"

John ground his teeth together. He _was_ still angry with her, but his anger had always been tinged more with disappointment than with fury. Her willful blindness had made her easy to mislead, but it didn't make her responsible for the position in which Sherlock had found himself, nor for his actions. He closed his eyes and drew in a breath, holding it for a moment before letting it out. When he opened his eyes again, he was calm.

"You were used, Sally. A tool. A pawn in the game Moriarty played with Sherlock," John answered, not put off by her scowl. "You put yourself into that position, making it easy to use you, but in the end, I'll put my anger where it belongs. This is his fault," John said, indicating the file with all the Yard's information on Moriarty – Muireartaigh.

"No," Sally protested.

"Yes," John said firmly. "His fault," he paused and caught Sally's eye, forcing her to see him as he continued, "and Sherlock's."

"John," she said, her voice thick with grief, "I'm sorry."

"So am I."


	14. Chapter 14: 1 Year After

**A/N: Biscuits and chocolate and egg nog for kate221b and sevenpercent!**

* * *

They hadn't planned this gathering, but it felt right. More than right, actually. It felt … good.

John sighed. Even though he _knew_ that Sherlock was alive – had figured out that Sherlock's suicide was a fake, had had it confirmed by both Molly and Mycroft – even though he_knew_ that Sherlock was alive somewhere, doing God knows what – feeling _good_ was elusive. Sitting here, though, in Mrs. Hudson's flat with Greg and Molly and Mrs. H, on the anniversary of the fall … it was fantastic.

Molly was conflicted, he could tell. She was so very glad to be included in their group, but also nervous, given what she knew. And what she had done. And everything was becoming even more complicated for her given the relationship that was clearly growing between her and Greg Lestrade.

John appreciated how she felt. He hadn't always known that Sherlock's suicide was faked, but now that he did, he understood that the knowledge must be kept hidden. Sherlock had faked his death for a reason, and though Molly didn't know – and Mycroft would not reveal – what it might be, John knew that the reason must be important. He allowed his own actions to be guided by Sherlock's unknown plan, kept his knowledge of the man's survival to himself, and stretched his acting abilities to their limits.

John moved to where Molly sat on the sofa and reached out to put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at him and smiled a grateful, wavering smile.

"Can he actually cook?" he asked, nodding slightly toward the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson had put a roast in the slow cooker before she and John had gone to visit Sherlock's grave. It was to have been dinner for the two of them, but they'd met Molly and Greg there and had insisted that they come back to Baker street for tea. Mrs. Hudson had fretted a bit about not having quite enough food for everyone, and Greg had volunteered to help her throw together a few more side dishes for the meal.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know," Molly replied, ducking her head to hide a faint blush.

"Well, you've not called in sick with food poisoning yet, so that has to be a good sign," John said in a stage whisper.

"I heard that, you git," Greg said, coming out to the sitting room.

"You were supposed to," John laughed.

"Have you got any milk upstairs?"

"Yes, I think so. Help yourself."

He saw Greg catch Molly's eyes before he smiled and headed up to 221B to raid the refrigerator.

"Are you happy, Molly?" he asked quietly.

"Honestly, John, I'm too scared to be happy," she answered. "When he … when he finds out … "

"He will understand, Molly. We'll make him understand," John murmured, hoping he was right. "I will kill the arrogant twat for putting you in this position."

"Shins, John. Kick him in the shins," she said with a laugh, but sobered again quickly. "He couldn't have known, John. Not about, well, this. Not about Greg."

"I wouldn't put it past him," John countered with a smile.

"Is he still …?" she didn't finish the question.

"Mycroft promised to tell me if … well. No news is good news, yeah?"

"Good, then. That's. That's really good."

"John," Mrs. Hudson called, "would you mind opening the wine?"

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," John nodded to Molly and moved to take the wine bottle from his landlady.

Greg returned with the milk and a few other bits he'd appropriated from the fridge upstairs and moved to the stove. Molly joined them in the kitchen, standing next to Greg, her hand resting lightly on his back. John watched them, smiling.

John poured the wine and handed glasses around.

"I've always liked cooking with wine," Greg said as he accepted his glass and took a drink.

"Greg," Molly remonstrated, laughing and moving away. "Shall I lay the table?"

"Oh, thank you, dear," Mrs Hudson replied, indicating the cupboard.

John handed down the dishes and Molly moved to the table. John followed with the silverware. By the time they'd finished setting the table, Greg and Mrs. Hudson were bringing out the food.

They ate, and laughed, and drank, and smiled. And they told stories, reminding each other of the mischief their lost friend had gotten into. It might have been maudlin, but it wasn't.

"A toast," Greg said, raising his glass. "To our beloved sociopath, Sherlock Holmes."

John caught Greg's eye across the table and mouthed 'Beloved?' at him, grinning.

Mrs. Hudson gave Greg a light smack on the arm. "He was no such thing," she chided.

"What, beloved?" Greg asked, joking.

"Oh, you!" Mrs. Hudson laughed. "You know very well that he was not a sociopath. That man felt as much and as deeply as everyone else does. He certainly loved you!"

"Oh, no, Mrs. Hudson," Greg replied, chuckling. "He tolerated me because I he found me useful. He was fond of Molly, and he adored you, that's certain. John, though ... John he loved, no doubt," he smirked at John, who threw him a mock scowl in reply.

"Don't take that tone when you speak of love," Mrs Hudson scolded. "It's beautiful, and not deserving of mockery."

"Not mocking, Mrs Hudson. Teasing, maybe. Jesting. It's expected of British blokes, isn't it?"

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and gave a dramatic, long suffering sigh.

"Idiots, all of you. Sniggering schoolboys who've never grown up, caught between trying to look tough in front of your mates, and wanting to ask that pretty girl for a date. Such bravado. Cowards. So afraid of the word. Did none of you ever learn that love doesn't mean sex?"

Greg choked on a mouthful of wine. John felt his face heating and tried not to squirm in his seat. A dinner conversation with Mrs Hudson that included sex was far to reminiscent of his mother sitting him down for 'the talk' when he'd been a teen.

"Ridiculous," Mrs Hudson continued, seeing their reactions. She turned to John, "That you two loved each other was so obvious, even the blind could see it. But you never said it, either of you. Such a waste. What would it have hurt for you two to have said the words?"

Her question was sincere, but her tone was merry. That was all that saved him from falling back on embarrassed protestations. Instead, he smiled and rolled his eyes.

"Too much sentiment, Mrs Hudson," he laughed. "Sherlock was more allergic to it than most blokes."

"John Hamish Watson," Mrs Hudson rebuked mock sternly.

John's jaw dropped in shock at the use of his full name in the tone of a disappointed parent. Across the table Greg was grinning broadly while Molly tried to stifle her giggles behind her hand.

"What? How?"

"It was on your rental paperwork, dear. Sherlock wasn't the only one able to 'observe'," she laughed.

"Of course," John agreed.

"Go on, then, John," Greg teased. "Admit it."

"Admit what, you berk?" his tone of weary resignation belied by his small smile.

"That you loved each other."

"He loved you, too, Greg," Mrs Hudson insisted

"Mrs. Hudson," Greg said, the amusement in his tone his layered with affection and patience "How much regard could the prat have had for me if he couldn't be bothered to learn my name?"

"Bollocks," Mrs Hudson declared.

John was so taken aback by her crude language that he knocked over the wineglass his hand had been seeking. He threw his napkin down quickly, trying to sop up the mess. Molly hurried to help him, while Greg sat gaping like a fish. Mrs Hudson laughed and told John not to mind the mess, handing him the wine bottle so he could refill his glass.

"Of course he knew your name, Gregory Eoin Lestrade," she continued when they'd recovered.

"Okay," Greg pronounced slowly, clearly perplexed. "You got John's name from his rental agreement. Where did you get mine?"

"The same place Sherlock did, dear. Your ID badges. Which reminds me, I think I've got another one or two around here somewhere. They keep popping up. He hid them everywhere."

"Cost me a small fortune in replacing the damned things," Greg growled. "But that's not proof that he knew my name. When I showed up in Baskerville, he accused me of being his 'handler', and calling myself Greg in order to be incognito. He didn't know it was my name."

"As I recall from reading John's blog, Greg, he wasn't pleased to see you," Mrs Hudson said. "Didn't you say, John, that Sherlock thought Mycroft had sent him?"

"Yes, he did think that."

"And he wasn't far wrong," Greg put in. "Mycroft did suggest that I drop by to look in on things. Arranged for my leave to be extended another couple days. Didn't 'send' me there or anything, though, actually, even Mycroft's suggestions tend to be orders."

"And you don't think that maybe he was winding you up, pretending not to know your name?"

"I don't know, Mrs. Hudson," Greg said, his tone laced with doubt.

"Oh, please. That man raised churlish behavior to an art form. He'd try to find some way to ruffle your feathers to punish you for the perceived crime of being Mycroft's proxy."

"That does sound like something he would have done," Molly agreed.

"It does, actually," Greg conceded. "All right, fine. He liked me. And I liked him, mad bastard that he was. He was my friend."

The atmosphere at the table had sobered with Greg's admission, and they sat in an uncomfortable silence. Then Greg cleared his throat and shot John a grin.

"Your turn, mate."

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" John asked heavily.

"Nope," Greg responded.

"You wrote it all over that blog of yours, John," Mrs Hudson commented. "Right from the first entry with the pink lady and the cabbie. Though perhaps," she said, trailing off lightly and shooting a worried glance toward Greg, "I ought not to have brought that up."

"Don't fret, Mrs Hudson," Greg said, catching her look and laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I know absolutely nothing about John's illegal gun or his remarkable aim. The mysteries of the cabbie's shooter, and the origin of the bullet holes in the wall upstairs, will forever remain unsolved, I'm afraid."

"Sherlock shot the wall," John protested.

"You should have hidden the gun better," Mrs Hudson admonished. "Though I'd happily hand it to him and hang a target, if he were only here to shoot it. Such a ridiculous man," she sighed. "I miss him. Barmy git."

John chuckled at the affectionate tone she used to curse Sherlock. He completely understood.

"I do, too," he agreed, reaching to take her hand and give it a sympathetic squeeze.

"You loved him," she said gently.

"I suppose I … did," John replied, finally.

Greg snickered, earning himself a glare from Mrs Hudson. John watched as Greg tried to school his face into an innocent expression and chuckled at the result. His eyes slid to Molly, expecting her to be similarly amused by Greg's efforts. Her expression made his heart ache.

Molly looked shattered. Hearing his admission, and knowing that Sherlock was alive, having left John behind, had obviously added to her feelings of guilt.

"Molly," he said softly, locking eyes with her and not letting her look away. "He was the most observant man on the planet. He knew."

John could feel the concerned look Greg was sending Molly, and the confusion Mrs Hudson was directing his way. He ignored them and gave Molly a puckish smile.

"Your shins might be in danger," he said.

She chuckled at that, managing a watery smile. Picking up her nearly empty wineglass, she held it up for a toast.

"To Sherlock," she said firmly. "Absent from our presence, but not from our hearts."


	15. Chapter 15: 15 and a half Months After

**A/N: Goodies and thanks to kate221b and Sevenpercent!**

* * *

"So, that's it, then?" John asked, sliding into a chair across from Greg.

"That's it," Greg confirmed. "Peters is out, Vaughan is in."

"Long live the Chief," John said, raising his glass.

"I'll drink to that," Greg agreed, tapping his pint and taking a long pull. "It'll be good to have a proper Chief. Someone who worked his way up the ranks, who wasn't just handed the position for political reasons."

"My kind of bloke."

"You saw his press conference?"

"I've recorded it for posterity," John replied, smiling. "I wonder how many Yard officers he managed to piss off using his first official briefing to formally clear Sherlock's name."

"All of them, I'd imagine. But the Deputy Commissioner's got his back, and he's got most of the rank and file behind him. Sally's been one hell of a cheer leader."

"Never saw that coming," John admitted, "but I'm glad of it," he paused for a drink, then continued. "So, there's a new Chief, and Sherlock's been vindicated. What next?"

"Starting next week I'll be back in the serious crimes division."

"Thank Christ! It's about bloody time! You were wasted on the Assessment Team."

"Yeah. It'll be good to get back to it," Greg replied, smiling. "Sally has already applied to be transferred to my team."

"That's good," John responded. "You were a good team."

"She wanted me to ask you about something," Greg said with a nod. "Some sheet music Sherlock left you? Said she made a copy from our files and asked her boyfriend to play it for her."

"Boyfriend?" John interrupted, surprised. "Not Anderson. If Anderson has a musical bone in his whole body, I'll eat my shoes."

"Not Anderson," Greg affirmed with a grin. "She kicked him to the kerb months ago. Just after Halloween? Christ, it's been almost a year."

"Good for her."

"Yeah," Greg agreed. "Even better? His wife took a job in Glasgow. They moved house around the beginning of the year."

"Good riddance, though, I do pity the Scots."

Greg grinned. "Anyway, after Sally got Alain to play your music, she wondered if you had any more of Sherlock's compositions. Said that if you'd like, Alain would record them for you."

"That's … Yeah. I'd like that. I'd like it a lot. I'll get his work together and send it by the Yard?"

"I wasn't sure you'd want to do it. Hearing it … won't it make it harder? Make you miss him more?"

"Not possible."

Greg was silent for a moment, then John heard him take a deep breath before speaking.

"Sometimes, I like to pretend, you know. Pretend that he didn't die, and that he's off fighting the good fight somewhere."

John nearly choked on his beer.

"You what?" he gasped when he could breathe again.

"You've thought the same thing," Greg accused, leveling a finger at John. "I know you have. Imagined that there was some reason that he had to fake his death, some threat we didn't know about, that made it seem like his best and only option."

"So, what, he left us behind to mourn him while he went off and …?"

"I don't know, John," Greg's tone was exasperated. "Moriarty was supposed to have a gang of some sort, wasn't he? Sherlock called him a spider, sitting in the middle of some giant web. So, he's got a network or some such thing, yeah?"

"Yeah. A criminal organization. International."

"So maybe the only way to track them down was to disappear, so they wouldn't be looking for him."

"And he couldn't tell us?"

"If he had, you'd be out there with him, wouldn't you?" Greg asked. "Or, you'd be here, worrying, and the people he was trying to convince of his death wouldn't be fooled."

"Why does no one think I can act?" John asked, irritated.

"Doesn't matter if you can or not. You wouldn't, if he'd told you his plan. You'd be with him."

"You're serious, aren't you?" John asked.

"I honestly have no idea," Lestrade laughed, downing the last of his pint. "Sounds mental, doesn't it?"

"Yes, you're a right nutter," John agreed easily, then sighed. "You're right, though, that I've had similar thoughts."

"Well, here's to being nutters together."

"I'd happily toast to that," John laughed, "if you had anything left to drink."

"I'll see if I can remedy that," Lestrade replied, climbing to his feet and moving to the bar.

John sat back heavily in his chair. This was a dangerous conversation. He should be doing everything in his power to change the subject, lest he accidentally let something slip.

But what if Greg had worked something out on his own? The man was a detective, and a bloody good one. He may have seen things John had missed. For all that John had specific knowledge of Sherlock's survival, there were many things about the fake suicide that he still did not know. Was it worth the risk, drawing out this conversation on the chance that he'd learn something? He sighed, then caught sight of Greg returning with two pints and smiled.

"Figured you'd need a refill soon enough."

"Ta, Greg."

"So, here's to being a bit mental, then."

"Cheers," John agreed, clinking his glass against Lestrade's and taking a drink. He swallowed it down, prayed for the best, and forged ahead. "So, in our fantasy world where Sherlock is out saving the day, do we think he'll come back?"

"Of course."

"Quite sure of that, are you? You don't think he'll finish up his task and go set up somewhere new? Nice sunny beach somewhere?"

"John," Lestrade said in a tone reminiscent of a teacher kindly explaining something to a particularly dim child, "if that mad bastard is still alive when he finishes whatever task our crazy drunken minds imagine he's out there doing, he'll come back - to London, to the work, ... to you. "

John gaped at Greg, who chuckled under his breath as he took a pull from his beer.

"Don't even try, mate. You lost all hope of plausible deniability at that dinner at Mrs Hudson's. You might not have been shagging him, but you were a couple. I've explained why before. And Mrs H was right about how blindingly obvious it was, whether you said the words or not. You were, without a doubt, that man's better half. And he knew it. If he managed unravel Moriarty's web and still drew breath, he'd come back to you."

"So that makes him, what? My worse half?"

"Damn straight."

"Well. All right, then. I guess … that's fine."

Greg snorted with laughter, and John joined in, shaking his head ruefully. He cleared his throat.

"So, then. When he finishes taking Moriarty's network apart at the seams and comes back – "

"– to you."

"– to me," he rolled his eyes at Greg, "how do we all feel about that? About him leaving us behind, thinking he was dead."

"I can't be sure if I'd want to punch him or kiss him," Greg said.

"Wait, am I supposed to be jealous now? Of you wanting to kiss my other half?"

"Oh, there's a thought. Maybe I should go with hitting him, just so you don't hit me."

"You don't think I'd hit you if you hit him?"

"Would you?"

"Be serious."

"What? You're the one who asked if you should be jealous!"

"Fine, fine. Kiss him, then."

"If he came back, John, I think I would," Greg said, his voice losing it's jovial tone. He shook his head and forced a smile. "Molly probably wouldn't object if I planted one on him. On his _cheek_, mind you. Would probably be next in line, actually. Though, she might punch him rather than kiss him, come to think of it."

"Or kick him in the shins," John said with a chuckle, then he sobered. "You wouldn't be angry with him?"

"Oh, you bet your arse I would be. Furious, I'd imagine. But for all that, I don't think the fury would hold a candle to the delight of having him back."

"Delight, is it? Maybe I should be jealous after all."

"Maybe," Greg smirked. "That crazy git. Drove me around the bend nearly every time I saw him, and I would be _delighted_ to have him do it again."

"Amen," John agreed, "How do you suppose he did it, then? In our fantastical alternate reality where he faked his own suicide?" he asked, lifting his glass.

"Molly."

John's glass thunked back down to the table.

"_Molly_? What? Molly _Hooper_? _Your_ Molly?"

"You know how she felt about him. If he'd asked her to declare him dead, she would have."

"You really think so? I mean, yeah, she had a thing for him – but to falsify an autopsy and a death certificate … that would be all sorts of bad for her, professionally."

"She'd have done it, though, if he asked."

"Well, it's a good thing that she's got someone who will make more reasonable requests now, then, isn't it?" John said, tilting his glass toward Greg.

The other man smiled and lifted his glass to tap lightly against John's. They drank, musing.

"You wouldn't be mad at her, would you?" John asked, remembering Molly's worry over that exact eventuality. "When Sherlock finishes taking apart Moriarty's organization and comes back and you find that she knew all along that he was alive? I might find myself a bit pissed to learn that she'd kept that information from me."

"I imagine you might, but then, he's your other half."

"And she's yours."

"She is, isn't she?"

"Idiot."

"Git."

They stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing. When they regained control, John shook his head solemnly.

"Nah, I couldn't be mad at her. She wouldn't keep it secret if he didn't tell her to. And if he told her to, there would have been a reason for it. He wouldn't ask her to help him fake his death or keep it secret lightly."

"That's why I don't ask her."

"Wait, what?" John floundered. "Sorry, that doesn't sound like you're pretending to believe he's alive out there. It sounds … Actually, it sounds as if you really do. You believe it."

"I told you it was mental."

"You did, yeah. And I welcomed you to the club."

Greg leaned forward, dropping his voice to an almost conspiratorial whisper, "It just doesn't add up, John. He wouldn't have jumped because people believed the worst of him. Hell, he liked it that way. He went out of his way to be an obnoxious prick just to give people the worst possible impression. Sherlock didn't give a rat's arse about his reputation, and the loss of it would _not_ have driven him to jump."

John sobered. Greg had put his finger on the only bit of the whole puzzle that still eluded him. He knew the what, and the how, but he didn't know the _why_.

"I couldn't agree more, Greg. But if it wasn't that, what was it? Because it sure as hell wasn't any of the bollocks he tried to feed me in that phone call. He wasn't a fraud." John was a bit taken aback by the vehemence in his words and tone. He nodded an apology across the table.

"No, that he wasn't. Not a fraud, not afraid of having been found out, nor concerned that people might believe him to be one."

"So? What then?"

"Blackmail?"

John snorted.

"Sherlock was too addicted to speaking the blunt truth to have some secret that could be held over his head."

"You don't think he ever lied?"

"Oh, he lied whenever it suited him. But he didn't lie in ways that could be used against him. Not to that extent. If he got caught out in a lie, he owned up to it. Usually with a half-hour long diatribe on why the lie was not only necessary, but also the best possible thing he could have said."

Greg hummed his agreement.

"Some sort of threat, though. But what could Moriarty have threatened that he'd hold so valuable that he'd trade his life for it?" John asked.

Greg's eyes widened.

"Oh."

"What?"

"You."

"Me, what?" John asked, puzzled.

"Christ. He was right. You are an idiot."

"You think he jumped because Moriarty threatened _me_?"

"Not ten minutes ago we agreed that you were his better half, John. He _knew_ that. What _wouldn't_ he do to keep you safe?"

John ran a hand through his hair, studying Greg across the table. The other man was serious. Whether he believed that Sherlock's jump had ended in death or lies, he was convinced that the motivation for it lay in saving John's life.

Greg could apparently read John's disbelief in his face. He leaned forward, and continued, "John. You killed for him. You put yourself between him and the danger he attracted like a magnet more times than I can count. You offered to sacrifice yourself to save him at the pool when Moriarty put you in that blasted semtex vest," Greg said, his eyes intense. "You don't think he'd do the same for you?"

"No?" John answered, slowly.

"Why not?" Greg demanded.

"Because he's Sherlock bloody Holmes!" John answered in a vehement hiss. "And I'm … I was just … his blogger. I'm not important."

Greg sat back in his chair, his incredulity obvious.

"John. You are not 'just' anything. And you were clearly as important to him as he was to you, whether you saw it or not."

Mrs. Hudson had said much the same thing, once, John remembered. When he was in hospital, months before, recovering from being mugged.

"Mrs Hudson." John murmured.

"What?" Greg asked, clearly puzzled by the non-sequiter.

"He threw that American out the window four times because he'd laid his hands on Mrs Hudson."

"Four? Really?"

"He stopped when we could hear the sirens approaching."

Greg nodded. "So you think he threw himself off a building to stop someone hurting Mrs Hudson?"

"And you," John agreed, meeting Greg's eyes. "And me. And Molly, and Mycroft. I don't know. His friends. People who were close to him."

"Yeah."

John stared at his beer, turning the glass aimlessly, then picked it up and finished it off. He set the glass down with a hollow thunk.

"So, in our half-baked delusion, Sherlock threw himself off a building in order to save us, but he faked his death with Molly's help, and is alive out there, somewhere, working to bring down Moriarty's organization, so that he can come home. And we'll all be too delirious with joy at having him back to hold grudges against him, Molly, or Mycroft."

"Grudges against Mycroft?"

"If Sherlock is alive and hunting down Moriarty's gang, he's feeding what he learns back to Mycroft."

"You don't think he's taking them out himself?"

"He never was a killer, Greg," John replied. "As a last resort? He'd pull the trigger. But it would better feed his ego to bring them down in the public eye. Which means Mycroft."

"Sounds about right, yeah," Greg agreed. "I wouldn't put it past the sod. Either one of them."

"Bloody hell, Greg. How drunk are we?"

"Not enough, my friend. Not nearly enough."

"Another round?"

"Fuck, yes."

"My turn, then."

John stood and moved from the table, clapping a hand on Greg's shoulder as he passed. He went to the bar and placed his order, musing over the conversation as he waited. The idea that he was Sherlock's 'better half,' and perhaps part of the reason he'd jumped off the roof of Bart's, was going to take some time to process. He couldn't argue with Greg's assessment, but he didn't know exactly how to accept it, either.

One thing he did know, though, after this interesting pub chat, was that Molly could relax. Greg would not hold her actions on Sherlock's behalf against her. Their relationship was secure.

John smiled as the bartender returned with the pints and his credit card. He was still smiling as he walked back to the table and put the beers down. He fished his phone out of his pocket before sitting down.

"What are you doing?" Greg asked, nodding toward the phone.

"Sending a text," John answered.

He hit the send button, hesitated just a moment, then put the phone face up in front of Greg. The other man quirked an eyebrow, then lowered his gaze to the screen to see Molly's number.

_Greg's going to kiss him, and leave the shin-kicking to you and to me. It's fine. Don't worry. Be happy. JW_

John watched anxiously as Greg read the message. The other man swallowed, hard, before looking up. His mouth twitched as he tried not to smile. John breathed out a silent sigh of relief.

"If you even think about kissing me, I _will_ hit you," he said lightly.

Greg laughed until his eyes were streaming tears. He wiped them away and reached for his beer.

John's phone buzzed with a text alert.

_Really?_

"May I?" Greg asked.

"Be my guest," John answered.

The other man picked up his phone, sent a short reply, and handed it back to him.

"Go ahead," Greg said.

John let his eyes drift down to the reply.

_Really. GL_

* * *

**A/N: If you're wondering when Greg had already explained to John why he believed John and Sherlock were a couple, you'll find that conversation in my story 'Paparazzi'.  
**


	16. Chapter 16: 17 and a half Months Later

**A/N: Many thanks to kate221b.**

**Early readers of the previous chapter will have noticed that it was originally titled as occurring 17.5 months after the fall. This was a mistake, which I corrected as soon as I caught it. The action of the previous chapter actually occurred 15.5 months after the fall. THIS chapter occurs 17.5 months after the fall. Whew! Sorry for the mix up.**

* * *

"You're going to miss Christmas, John," Mrs Hudson sighed as she helped carry in the boxes of take away from Angelo's. "I know it's a small thing when compared to what those poor souls lost in the typhoon, but I can't help but wish you'd be here."

"I know, Mrs H," John replied. "I'll miss being here with you, too."

"Hello?" called a voice from the entryway.

"In here, Mike! Come on up," John called down.

"There you are, John. Good evening, Mrs Hudson," Mike said, handing John a bottle of wine and nodding his greeting while shrugging out of his coat.

"Thanks for coming, Mike."

"Of course, I came. I do remember the parties you threw in medical school."

"I didn't throw those parties, Devesh did," John laughed. "I just lived there. And this won't be _that_ sort of party."

"I suppose not," Mike agreed with a grin, sending a sly wink at Mrs Hudson, who gave him a knowing smile.

"Hey, John," came Sarah's greeting as she entered the flat.

John gave her a quick hug and took her coat.

"Always a pleasure, Mrs Hudson," Sarah said, smiling. "Mike."

"It's good to see you, too dear," Mrs Hudson said, giving Sarah's arm a friendly squeeze. "Let me see about opening that bottle you brought, Doctor Stamford, and getting the things ready before everyone else gets here."

"Oh, let me help you with that," Sarah offered, flashing John a smile as she moved to follow Mrs Hudson into the kitchen.

"So," Mike said, turning to John. "The Philippines."

"More tropical than my last overseas jaunt," John replied, smiling.

"Malaria meds onboard?"

"Malarone. Started yesterday. I know the drill. Had to take them in Afghanistan. Bloody mosquitoes."

"No joke," Greg said, clapping John on the shoulder as he entered the flat.

John turned to welcome Greg and Dimmock – the former with a bottle of scotch in hand, the latter with a bottle of wine – and Sally Donovan, trailing in after them.

"Greg, Ian," John said in greeting. "This is a pleasant surprise, Sally."

"I'm glad you think so, John," she replied with a faint smile. "I dropped by to give you this," she said, holding out a memory stick.

"Oh?" John asked, taking the offered item.

"Alain finished recording all twenty two of Sherlock's compositions. I'd planned to give them to you for Christmas, but seeing as you won't be here … I thought you might like to have them while you're gone."

John closed his fingers around the memory stick, holding it tightly. He slipped an arm around Sally's shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome," she said, giving him an awkward one-armed hug around his waist.

"Stay for dinner?" he asked, accepting a glass of wine from Sarah and offering it to Sally.

"You sure?"

"Definitely."

"I'd like that, yeah," Sally replied with a smile, accepting the wine.

John smiled, slipping the memory stick into his pocket and making introductions where necessary. He caught the slight quirk in Sarah's eyebrow when he introduced her to Dimmock. He couldn't hide his smile when he gave her a nearly imperceptible nod before turning to welcome the latest guests to the impromptu party.

"Molly, Finn, glad you could make it."

"I wouldn't miss it, John," Molly said, giving him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before moving to take Greg's hand.

"And I," Finn said, shaking John's hand, "am here to rail against the fates for not granting me the foresight to strike the MSF emergency service stipulation from your contract when I employed you. Thanks so much for the scheduling headache," he mock groaned, smiling. "As if organizing staff around holiday leave requests wasn't hard enough already."

"You're more than up to the challenge," John laughed. "I am sorry about the short notice."

"Typhoons are unpredictable like that," Finn replied. "Thus the 'emergency' in emergency relief services."

"What time is your flight, John?" Mike asked.

"Eight AM," John replied, not able to hide a groan.

"Do you need a ride to the airport?" Sarah asked him.

"I have that in hand, Doctor Sawyer," Mycroft said smoothly from the door.

"Mycroft," John said, surprised, his tone polite but clipped. "Anthea. I didn't expect you."

Molly was suddenly at his side, anxiety nearly tangible.

"It's just the news of your trip that's brought them 'round, surely?" she said with forced calm.

"Of course," Mycroft replied, with an air of nonchalance. "What else?"

"Actually, he was just giving us a ride over," said a voice from the entryway.

John frowned. Anthea and Mycroft stepped into the flat, engaging the other guests in conversation, skillfully drawing them away from the door. Out on the landing, John could see Harry, holding tightly to Clara's hand. He hadn't spoken to Harry since the day he'd left her house, just after Sherlock's jump, and he hadn't seen Clara in _years_. Seeing them now, together, suggested things he'd given up hoping for.

"Harry," John breathed. "Clara?"

Clara stepped forward, pulling Harry with her.

"Happy Christmas, John," Clara said, taking his hand and placing Harry's hand into it. "I think you'll like your present."

"My present?"

"Eighteen months sober, on Christmas Day. Way to spoil my surprise, chasing storms around the globe," Harry said, trying to smile.

"Eighteen months?"

"Will be, on Christmas day. Only sixteen and a half, just now. Sorry it's not wrapped," Harry replied, managing a teasing tone.

"That's … Harry. That is fantastic," John said, reaching to pull Harry into a tight embrace.

"It's because of you, John," Clara said, smiling at them.

"Me?"

Harry pulled back, shooting Clara a petulant look. Clara smiled serenely. After a moment, Harry gave a heavy sigh, and turned to flash a cheeky smile at John.

"Your fault, yeah," she said.

"How's that, then?"

"What you said, that morning," Harry said, her smile fading, expression becoming haunted.

"What did I say?" John asked. He remembered being furious, and hurt, and storming out of her house before he did anything he might regret. He could not recall what he might have said.

"You said that you couldn't stay to watch me kill myself. You'd had enough of that."

"Oh," John said, sobering.

"Went on a bit of a bender after you left. Lived in the bottle for about two weeks, then I drunk-dialled Clara and asked her if that's what it was like for her. Watching me kill myself."

"I told her that it was something like that," Clara said with a sad smile. "And she asked for help."

"It wasn't easy. It still isn't easy. Every day is a struggle," Harry said, reaching back to take Clara's hand again. "But it's worth it."

"Harry," John breathed, so very proud of her accomplishment. "That is just … This is the best Christmas gift I've ever received."

"It's bloody marvelous, isn't it?" Harry said with a grin, then she looked around the crowded sitting room. "Quite a send off, John."

"How did you find out – no, wait. Bloody Mycroft," John said, shaking his head. "Come on, I'll introduce you."

Harry caught his sleeve before he could pull them into the party.

"I need to apologize," she said softly.

"What for?"

"The things I said about Sherlock. I believed what I'd seen in the papers, rather than trusting your judgment. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

John gave her a sad smile.

"You weren't the only one, Harry. One of the few, though, to admit it. Thank you," he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "All right, then," he continued, turning to guide her into the crowded room. "Harry, you might remember Mike?"

After introducing Harry and Clara to Mike and Finn, and leaving them sharing cringe-worthy stories of John's childhood, medical school shenanigans, and current adventures with vomiting toddlers in the Urgent Care Centre, John drifted to Anthea's side. Mycroft's PA managed to deftly excuse herself from conversation with Molly, Dimmock, and Sarah, and turned to give John a bright smile.

"Do I have you to thank for this?" he asked her quietly. "Letting Harry know about my trip, and getting her here?"

"Not this time," she replied. "When your text came yesterday about joining the MSF relief operation to the Philippines, he realised that you'd be gone over Christmas, and that your sister's planned holiday surprise would be ruined. He contacted her and arranged to bring them here tonight."

"He's been keeping an eye on her, then? A close one, if he knew of her plans for Christmas?"

"We've had eyes on her since the morning you were released from hospital and taken to stay at her house."

"I imagine they were in place well before that," John sighed.

"I can neither confirm nor deny that conjecture," Anthea replied blandly. "They do remain in place today," she continued, "and are responsible for the knowledge of her return to sobriety and her intention to reveal it to you as a holiday gift."

"And when you realised that my tour derailed her plans ..."

"When _he_ realised it," Anthea corrected, "he arranged this."

"Awfully sentimental of him," John murmured, smiling slightly.

"I'm afraid I can't comment on that," she smirked.

Turning, John caught sight of the elder Holmes talking quietly with Mrs Hudson. He caught the other man's eye and gave him a nod and a genuine smile.

"This you can thank me for, however," Anthea said, her hand on his shoulder, directing his attention to the door as Angelo appeared bearing another heavily laden bag of food. "Wouldn't do to add four to the dinner party and not make sure there was enough to feed them."

John laughed, grinning at her before moving to greet the restauranteur and lead him to the kitchen. Mrs Hudson bustled in to assist, pulling the other take away containers from the oven where they were keeping warm. After they'd arranged the food on the table, Angelo moved to leave.

"Before you go, Angelo," John said, catching the other man on the landing and reaching for his wallet. "While I'm away, would you see to it that Wiggins gets what he needs? For the watchers?"

"They're still doing that, then?" Angelo asked.

"They are. A year and a half later, and with his name cleared, they are still sitting watch. Only nights, now, but still," John replied, pulling several notes out of his wallet and handing them to Angelo. "If he needs more ..."

"I'll take care of it," Angelo interrupted. "Though I don't see how he would," Angelo continued, indicating the several large denomination bills in his hand.

"It's cold out there, Angelo," John replied. "Blankets and hot meals and coffees and something to keep the rain off … it adds up."

"It does," Angelo agreed with a heavy sigh, pocketing the money. Then he smiled and nodded. "I'll see to it, Doctor Watson."

"Just John, Angelo," John corrected. Again. "Hey, Billy's got things in hand back at the restaurant, yeah?"

"Of course."

"Then stay for dinner?"

"I don't want to intrude."

John didn't bother answering, just shaking his head and holding out an arm to direct him back into the flat. Angelo chuckled and allowed himself to be turned around.

They returned to find that the others had already begun serving themselves from the variety of dishes set out on the kitchen table, arranging themselves comfortably around the room in spite of the slightly insufficient seating. Angelo helped himself to a plate piled high with penne and gnocchi, and a glass of wine, before moving to lean against the sitting room table next to where Mrs Hudson sat in conversation with Anthea and Finn. Molly was ensconced in Sherlock's armchair, Greg perched next to her on the arm, Sarah and Dimmock in similar poses opposite them. Sally perched gingerly on the coffee table, chatting with Mike, Clara, and Harry as they sat on the couch.

John filled a plate and leaned on the kitchen worktop, next to Mycroft.

"You're certain heading off to the Philippines is a good idea?" Mycroft asked.

"Is there something I should know? A reason I shouldn't?" John responded, raising his eyebrows and slurping a bite of angel hair.

"Nothing," Mycroft replied, frowning in distaste at John's table manners. "Save the possibility of being absent at the time of … importance."

"Do you think that likely, then?" John asked, swallowing hard.

"No," Mycroft answered after a lengthy pause. "Not yet."

"You know how to reach me, then, if there's news either way. I imagine you have more communication options than most, even in the midst of Haiyan's destruction."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed, taking a dainty bite of ravioli. He washed the bite down with a sip of red wine. "A car will be here tomorrow morning at six."

"Ta," John replied. "I appreciate it. And, thank you, for Harry," John said, glancing over to where his sister was laughing at some anecdote Sally was sharing.

"Of course, John."

A high pitched ringing sounded through the flat. John and Mycroft turned to see Mike standing, tapping his fork against his wine glass.

"Mike ..."

"Shut up and let me embarrass you," Mike responded pleasantly.

"Just remember that there are police officers in the room," Sarah laughed from across the room.

"Oh, God," John groaned.

"Don't worry, John. I won't tell them the truth about Jeremy Barker's full body cast, or how the skeleton from the anatomy classroom ended up in Doctor Meade's shower."

The room filled with chuckles and catcalls and pleas for further details. John couldn't help grinning, even as he felt his face heating.

"Do your worst, then, Mike."

"Sadly, I think that was about it," Mike responded. "You were too busy cleaning up the trouble Devesh and Margaret and I got into to get up to much on your own."

"You lot did keep me hopping," John agreed.

"Although there was the dognapping incident ..." Mike mused. "But no, really, you were always much more likely to lend a hand, in the lab, or with coursework, or getting home from the pub … A pattern of behavior that persists to this day. You have always been a man determined to make a difference."

"That's my little brother," Harry chimed in, raising her glass of neon orange soda. "Always trying to save the world."

"And doing a bloody good job of it, too," Greg added.

Mike nodded.

"So you go out there, to the Philippines, and you go right on doing what you do so well. You go out there and you do _good,_ and then you come home safe. Baker Street, and Bart's, and London, need you."


	17. Chapter 17: 18 and a half Months After

**A/N: Happy Christmas!**

* * *

John smiled at the woman across the table from him as she picked up her cue.

"Go on, then. Do your worst. Blackball rules," he said, lifting the racking triangle from the balls and hanging it on the wall.

"My worst will still kick your arse," she replied with a grin lighting her face.

"Such language, Mary," John teased, picking up his beer. "Santa will not be pleased."

"I was already on the naughty list, I assure you."

John's spluttered cough was lost in the crack of the break shot. By the time he recovered, a second shot had been taken, and Mary was lining up for a third. Three red balls had been pocketed.

"Dear Christ, Mary," John said as her third shot fell perfectly, leaving the cue ball to roll into position for another. "I thought you were having me on."

"I warned you," she said. "Can't renege on the bet just because you didn't listen."

"I won't," John promised, watching her sink another ball. "Am I even going to get a shot in this farce of a game?"

"Nope," Mary responded, sinking the last red ball and lining up a shot on the eight ball.

"That's … amazing," John breathed, smiling broadly.

"Ta. Now. Pay up."

"Do you need it in writing? Legalised? Or will my pledge be sufficient?" John asked, smiling. He placed a hand over his heart and spoke solemly "I hereby commit one hour of my allotted satellite communications time to Mary Morstan, to be used as she sees fit."

"It would be more convincing if you weren't holding a beer in your other hand," she said drolly.

"Here, then," he said thrusting the bottle in her direction, "you hold it and I'll say it again."

She took the beer from him and drained it.

"Ta," she said, smiling at his astonished look. "Come on, let's get out of here. There's a queue forming for the table."

She took his hand and led him outside. She didn't let go as they strolled down the street in the direction of the MSF facility, and John found that he didn't mind.

"You know, I'd have been happy to give you communications time, if you'd just asked."

"Where's the fun in that?" she retorted.

John shook his head, smiling. As they walked, John noted progress in the removal of debris where structures had been damaged, or demolished, by the typhoon, and signs of construction where survivors were beginning the long process of rebuilding. They were sheltered by a sheet metal awning when a tapping sound started overhead. One tap, then another, then hundreds all at once.

"Brilliant!" Mary enthused, darting out to stand in the street in the middle of a late afternoon summer squall.

"You're mental," he hollered at her.

"All the best people are!" she replied. "Come on, John! It's tropical rain!"

"Plenty of rain in London," John responded.

"Rain in London is gloomy. Just look at this," Mary said, spinning around. "The sun is shining and it's raining. I wonder if we'll get a rainbow. That would be a lovely Christmas decoration."

John smiled as he watched Mary stand in the rain, arms outstretched, head thrown back. He couldn't help but laugh at her exaggerated pout when the rain began to taper off, no rainbow in sight.

He wondered, suddenly, what Sherlock would make of Mary. And, what Mary would make of Sherlock.

The thought made him pause. He had the oddest feeling that they'd get on. Or, if not get on, at least manage to endure one another well enough to co-exist civilly.

Mary didn't seem the type to driven off, though Sherlock would certainly try. She seemed more likely to step up to the challenge. Relish it, even. The idea of Mary going toe-to-toe with Sherlock, undaunted by his deductions, making him respect her, made John smile.

"Why are you smiling?" Mary asked suspiciously.

"You," John replied as she stepped out of the rain, wrapping her arms around herself. He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. It was a mild day, and while dancing about in the brief rain shower might have been fun, he didn't want Mary to feel chilled. "I was thinking about what my … family's ... reactions might be should they have the pleasure of meeting you."

"Your family?" she sounded surprised.

They continued walking back to the MSF compound, John's arm wrapped around Mary's shoulders, their hips jostling together comfortably.

"Yeah," John said, thinking of Mrs Hudson and Harry. Of Greg and Molly. "The whole crazy lot of them. You'd fit right in," he teased.

"You've never mentioned your family. Your sister comments on your blog ..."

"Wait," John said, stopping. He pulled away slightly, giving Mary a perplexed look. "You've read my blog?"

"I didn't use up my share of com time _Facebooking_," she replied, reaching out to wrap a damp arm around his waist and pull him back to her side.

John started walking again, his arm slipping back into place around Mary's shoulders. He was utterly bemused at the thought that she'd been interested enough in him to find and read his blog, out of date as it was. And more than a little flattered.

He wondered if she found the idea of being introduced to his family similarly flattering. Or vaguely alarming. After just seven short weeks of acquaintance, with only a handful of hours spent alone in her company, it might be unnerving to consider their friendship – relationship? – to have reached the family-meeting stage. Especially given _his_ family, which she'd know through his blog, even if she didn't realise who they were.

"What are you planning to do with the com time you just hustled out of me?"

"I'm not yet current on your blog. Was half way through the Hounds case when time ran out. And there was a link to Sherlock's blog that I haven't followed. Sounds like an interesting bloke, your flatmate."

"He … was," John said, a hitch in his step as he realised that she didn't know of Sherlock's suicide.

"Was?" she looked up, confused, as they slowed. Her expression shifted to concern at whatever she saw in John's face. "I'm sorry."

"No, no. It's okay. It's fine," John said, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

Her face was serious as she studied him.

"It doesn't look like it is," she murmured. "But I think maybe it will be."

"Yeah," John agreed giving her shoulder a squeeze.

She smiled and unwrapped her arm from his waist, stepping away just enough that his arm slid from her shoulders. Grabbing his hand she tugged him along.

"Come on. There's a glorious canned ham and some soggy green beans waiting for us. Might even be something chocolate, or coffee – oh, God, _coffee_ – to celebrate Christmas."

When they reach the MSF campus, John heard tinny Christmas music over the speakers in the tent that served as the mess hall. Mary wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Not a fan of 'Holly Jolly Christmas'?" John asked with a laugh.

"I love everything about Christmas, except the music," Mary replied. "Cheesy, tinny, schmaltzy crap."

"'_Schmaltzy_'?"

"Shut up."

"We don't have to eat there, you know," he suggested. "Grab a plate and go somewhere else."

"Yes, please," Mary agreed quickly, cringing as they entered the mess tent and the volume of the Christmas music – now the opening bars of an '80s version of 'The Little Drummer Boy' – increased. "Where?"

"I've got some recordings back in quarters. Had plans to listen to it tonight. Bit of a Christmas gift to myself. We could eat there, and listen to real music rather than this … _schmaltz_."

Mary's eyes widened. John wondered if he'd said something somehow inappropriate and began running his words over in his mind. He flushed when he realised that he'd basically invited her to dinner in his bedroom. It was a dorm-style tent shared with a dozen blokes, curtains between the beds to give the illusion of privacy, but still, 'quarters' was just a polite euphemism for 'place where I sleep'.

"Oh, I didn't mean to imply ..." John began, embarrassed, only to be cut off by Mary's delighted laughter.

"You are adorable," she laughed, leaning over to place a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth.

John stood, flustered, as she picked up a tray and a plate and began making her way through the mess line. He followed a second later. When he slid his tray – plate covered with over cooked carrots and rehydrated potato flakes in a sludgy brown gravy, in addition to the promised canned ham and soggy beans – next to hers, she looked up and grinned.

"I would be honored to listen to your recordings with you, John. I was amazed that you offered. Andrew told me he'd overheard a bit, and waxed rhapsodic about what he'd heard, but said that you were … rather private … with them."

"I suppose I am," John replied as they put cutlery on their trays and headed for the door. "He never played for an audience, really. It felt wrong, somehow, to share his music when he had never done so."

"He?" Mary asked.

"Sherlock. He wrote them," John replied, turning to back out the door, holding it open for Mary to follow him out. "He played beautifully, sometimes to think more clearly, other times to stop thinking all together. Any time his brother visited, or when he was feeling fractious – which was often, frequently at three in the morning – he'd make his violin screech rather than sing, using the dissonance as a weapon to drive people away. Occasionally, though," John's voice was warm with affection, "he'd play for me. Usually after a rough night. His music chased away the nightmares," he flushed again, feeling vulnerable. He did not normally share quite so much personal information.

"Oh," she said, flicking an uncertain glance up. "Are you sure you want me to hear it, John? It's clearly very special to you."

"Yeah," John said, smiling at her and tilting his head for her to lead the way across the campus to the staff dormitory tents. "It will be even better, I think, shared with you."

"All right, then," Mary said, turning toward the men's quarters.

She held the door open this time. John slipped past her into the room and guided her to the first bunk on the left.

"How did you manage the bed by the wall? Only one neighbor? Lucky sod!" Mary teased.

"Oh, yes. Lucky. That's me. My bunk, by the wall, only one neighbor. And traffic through that door at all hours. I'm living the high life," John replied, grinning.

"Clearly," Mary replied, moving to stand next to the bed, glancing around at the tent walls and the fabric curtain separating it from the next bunk. "Love what you've done with the place," she said, glancing up at the mosquito netting that hung from the ceiling, primed to be pulled down over the bed when he was ready for sleep.

"It's not much, but it's home," John shrugged. "At least for the next three weeks. Sorry I don't have any chairs to offer."

"I'll make do," Mary replied, sitting cross legged on his bed. She tucked his pillow against the wall and leaned back into it, her tray across her lap. "Only three more weeks here, then? What comes next? Another posting with MSF?"

"No," John answered, setting his tray on the bed and sliding a trunk out from under it. "Back to London. Might do another MSF tour, one day – I owe them that – but not yet."

John opened the combination lock on the trunk and reached inside for his ipod and speakers. Closing the trunk, he plugged the speaker cable into the ipod and scrolled down the playlist before touching the button to start the music.

"The sound isn't great," he apologized, lifting his tray and sitting on the bed. "Battery powered speakers leave a lot to be desired."

"How many batteries have you gone through since you got here?" Mary asked as the first strains of the violin filled the air.

"None," John said. "I've got two sets, and a solar powered charger."

"Brilliant," Mary said admiringly.

"It is, isn't it? Wish I could say it was my idea, but I'd be lying. A friend put it all together for me and shoved it into my bag on the way to the airport. How she knew I had the recordings, I don't know. I'd only just received them."

"She?" Mary asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Anthea," John replied. "A friend. Just a friend. _Very_ just a friend."

Mary smirked at him.

"Good," she said.

John grinned, groaning inwardly as he felt his face heating. Mary's delighted laugh made it clear that she'd noticed. Glancing down at his plate, he cleared his throat. Twice. John felt positively giddy. He said nothing, though, letting Sherlock's music fill the silence. They ate, and listened, and tried not to break into fits of giggles when they happened to catch one another's eyes.

They'd mostly finished their meal, and had listened to two of Sherlock's compositions, when the door to the men's quarters was tugged open.

"Watson, you in there?"

"Yeah, Andrew, I'm here," John replied, setting the tray with his nearly empty plate on the floor and turning to greet the newcomer.

"Santa came through. Brought the post with him. You got a package. Happy Christmas, you lucky bastard," Andrew replied, handing John a heavy box.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, you are a saint," John breathed, reading the mailing label. "Hold up, Andrew. Give me just a minute ..."

John tore into the paper and opened the box. Inside he found a note, a vacuum sealed bag of chocolate biscuits, another of rock cakes, and another filled with toffee covered with bits of nuts and drizzled with chocolate. At the very bottom of the box he found a small wrapped item. Setting the box full of baked delights and candy aside, John ripped open the paper and started laughing.

"What's so funny about Agatha Christie?" Andrew asked.

"Nothing," John replied, still chuckling. "Here, Andrew – share these around yeah?" John said, pressing the rock cakes and the toffee into the other man's hands.

"Will do, John," Andrew said, taking the bags and turning to go, tossing, "Thanks!" over his shoulder.

"Who's Mrs Hudson?" Mary asked.

"My landlady. She more-or-less adopted me and Sherlock. Wonderful, lovely, wise woman," John explained with a smile, wiping his knife off on a napkin and using it to slice into the bag of chocolate biscuits. "She also makes the best biscuits in all of England," he said, snatching a biscuit and holding the opened bag out to Mary to take one as well.

While they munched contentedly on chocolate biscuits, John read Mrs Hudson's note, snorting briefly over the news that Mycroft had provided her with the vacuum sealer when she'd mentioned her desire to send John some holiday treats. He looked up, smiling, and found Mary watching him.

"Part of your family, yeah?" she asked.

"Yeah," John agreed.

"Who else is there, in your crazy family? Your sister, and Mrs Hudson, and …?"

"Greg, and Molly," John replied. "He's a DI for the Yard. She's a forensic pathologist. If Mrs Hudson is my surrogate mother, those two are my brother and sister."

"You met them through Sherlock?"

"I did, yeah."

"And he's family, too?"

John studied Mary for a moment before giving a small, sharp nod.

"Yeah, he was. Sherlock was my family."

"What is he, then? To you?"

John sucked in a breath. This was the question where things fell apart before they really got started.

"There isn't … I don't …" he sighed. "I'm not sure there's a word for what he was. He was Sherlock."

"When you said you were thinking about your family's reaction to me, you meant him, didn't you? Sherlock?"

"I'd love to introduce you to all of them," John replied honestly. "But, yeah. I meant him. I think you two would have got on, and that is not something I ever thought I'd say."

"How did ..." she broke off. "I'm sorry. Not a good question."

"Bit not good, yeah," John said with a fond smile, eyes fixed on a spot over Mary's shoulder. He pulled his gaze back to her. "Suicide."

"Oh, John," she breathed, reaching for his hand.

John looked down at their hands, shifting slightly to thread their fingers together.

"Tell me about him?" she asked, hesitantly.

"I'd like to," John said after a moment, surprised.

Mary smiled. John smiled back, feeling strangely light. He opened his mouth to say something about his mad bastard of a flatmate, though he wasn't sure where to start, and then the music utterly derailed him.

"That's not right," he said, puzzled, turning to face the speakers.

"What's not right?"

"That bit, right there," John said as the phase repeated.

He picked up the ipod and looked at the screen. 'Tea' was the highlighted title on the play list.

"How is it not right?" Mary asked.

"He wrote this for … well. She wasn't exactly a client. Almost the opposite, actually. She was … a challenge. But, she died, except she didn't, but we thought she had. And he wrote this for her. Played it over and over while he was composing it. For days I heard nothing but this piece. But this is different," John said, closing his eyes to better focus on the music. "That phrase … it's in the right place, repeated properly, but the notes are different."

John opened his eyes and looked at Mary, frowning in perplexed concentration.

"Why would Sherlock write it one way when he played it another? Why change those notes?"

"Maybe the idea of how this sounded came to him late in the process of composing? After you'd heard it the other way long enough for it to stick?"

"That's possible, I suppose," John said reluctantly.

"But you don't believe that."

"No," John agreed after a moment.

"Why not?"

John glanced back at the ipod in his hand, then over to Mary, and smiled.

"Let me tell you about Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

**A/N: Allow me to panic just a bit now, because this runs me all the way out of the chapters I've already finished. I'm halfway through the next one, and know what happens after that, and have written quite a bit of the last chapter ... but egads! I'm trying to get it all finished before the UK premier of S3 on 1/1. Must write faster! Thanks so much for all your follows and favorites and reviews - they are the reward for writing. Happy Christmas!**


	18. Chapter 18: 20 and a half months After

**A/N: All the goodies to kate221b, Sevenpercent, and M. Vernet :)**

* * *

The steady tap of feet shod in high heels fell in beside him as he left Bart's.

"The suit looks good on you. Not so sure about the facial hair. And no, before you ask, there's no news," she said, not looking up from her mobile.

"Anthea. No news is good news, I suppose," John replied. "And you have good taste – in suits. Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Why are you here, then?"

"He wants to see you," she said, angling her head to indicate the long black car pulling up at the kerb.

John sighed, allowing Anthea to open the door for him. He slid into the limo and found himself seated opposite Mycroft. Anthea climbed in behind him, taking the seat next to her boss, focused on her Blackberry as soon as the door was shut.

"John," Mycroft said, inclining his head in greeting.

"What is it, Mycroft?"

"I thought it prudent to speak with you before your … dinner date … this evening."

"Why?"

"It might be best for you to have all the facts about your dining companion's current situation, to prevent any misunderstandings."

"Her 'situation'?" John repeated.

"She's been working with MI6 for the last thirteen months."

"Thirteen months? Took you a while to find her, then."

"It took several weeks of combing through your movements since you began your association with my brother to pinpoint the situation to which you referred when I questioned your 'acting abilities'," Mycroft admitted. "I must congratulate you on your dissimulation. I did not suspect that you had such guile in you."

"'Several weeks'?" John echoed. "You're slipping, Mycroft.

Anthea lifted her eyes from her mobile briefly, flashing John a small smirk. Mycroft grimaced.

"After we ascertained the nature of the actions you and Sherlock undertook on your little sojourn two years ago, we initiated a search for her. It took seven months to track her from the monastery in which my brother left her."

"Monastery?" John choked, laughing.

"You didn't know?"

"We never talked about it."

Mycroft's jaw twitched. John smiled serenely.

"So, you tracked her down, and now she works for you. Good to know. Thanks for the heads-up. Is that all, then?"

"Consider it a friendly warning, John," Mycroft replied. "I said that she works _with_ MI6. She is not directly in its employ. I do not trust her not to be running her own game, still, working to her own agenda."

"Well, not trusting her is nothing new," John said mildly. "Your concern is touching, but unnecessary."

"John," Mycroft began, "I do hope that you are not operating under the misguided belief that she will offer anything out of gratitude ..."

"Mycroft. Stop," John interrupted. "As I did nothing for which she might feel grateful, I have no expectations of gratitude, nor am I interested in anything she might have to offer."

"She is a master manipulator, John."

"Pot, kettle," John murmured, earning a slight upturn of the corner of Anthea's mouth. He cleared his throat, "I did live with your brother, Mycroft."

"I assume that it was through some agency of my brother's that you were able to contact her?"

"You mean you don't know?" John asked.

"No," Mycroft replied, not quite managing to mask his displeasure at the admission.

John smirked.

"He left a phone number coded into the composition he wrote for her, along with a phone."

"The safety deposit box," Mycroft said, nodding.

"You knew the contents of the box?" John asked. "How? Your name wasn't on the register."

"Of course not," Mycroft agreed.

John smiled and shook his head.

"Of course not. And you won't tell me how you knew, but that doesn't matter. Because even though you knew, you couldn't work it out. Sherlock left a puzzle that only I could figure out, and it led me to her."

"Why did she agree to this meeting?" Mycroft asked.

"No idea," John replied easily. "I don't much care. Sherlock left me the means to contact her, which amounts to his having left instructions to do so. I'm more interested in his reasons than hers."

"I have reason to believe that she is aware of his situation, John."

"But not proof," John said after a moment. He shook his head, smiling grimly. "No, Mycroft. I won't be your pawn in some game of spy versus spy."

"She may have information we could use."

"I was under the impression that you got your information on his 'situation' directly from the source," John retorted. "Am I wrong?"

"You know as well as I that he only shares what he thinks we need to know."

John turned to glare out the window.

"If the conversation happens to turn in that direction, John, I would appreciate if you would relay what you learn."

"Why do you bother, Mycroft? With the whole polite request bullshit? You've already got eyes and ears set up, don't you?" John demanded, turning back to face the elder Holmes brother.

Mycroft did not reply. John snorted a laugh.

"Piss off, Mycroft," John retorted as he let himself out of the car.

* * *

It was the sort of restaurant in which John could imagine Mycroft dining. The posh git probably had an account here. John stifled his discomfort and instructed the sommelier to leave the bottle, though the man clearly thought that was in poor taste. John ignored the man's disapproving look and turned to his menu, not looking up as his dining companion slid into the chair opposite him a few moments later. He was vaguely surprised to realize that he recognized her perfume. He'd spent little enough time in her presence, and most of it she'd smelled of the products she'd used in the shower at Baker Street. Nevertheless, he knew the fragrance, and its owner.

"You're meant to be dead," he said bluntly.

"You looking quite well yourself, Doctor Watson," she replied, purring, "I do _like_ the moustache. It suits you."

He looked up then, and studied her. Her hair had been cut into a bob and dyed a dark auburn. She'd had work done on her face, subtly altering the line of her jaw and nose. Contact lenses turned her eyes a dark chocolate. She was recognizable, but only if you knew to look.

"Don't pretend you're surprised," she said, one brow raised in a question, challenging him.

He stared at her without responding, then nodded. Her smile was triumphant.

"I knew it was you - the gun in the stands. He never said, but I knew. You'd never let him run into danger without watching his back."

John heard the question behind her statement. She was fishing. "No, I wouldn't," he answered honestly.

Her gaze was searching. She hadn't found the answer she was looking for.

"But he wasn't expecting you, in Karachi, was he?"

"No. He made those plans without including me. Probably believed that I had no interest in saving your sorry arse. Quite rightly, too."

"You really don't like me, do you?" she said, amused.

"Manipulative bitch is really not my type," John replied.

"But manipulative bastard is?" she asked archly.

John smiled and sipped his wine, refusing to rise to her bait. He glanced up as a waiter approached the table, but he waved the man away. As the waiter retreated, Irene gave John a wicked smile.

"_He_ liked me, though. Enough to come halfway around the world to save my life. What must I mean to him, to make him take such radical action? It must drive you mad, not to know."

John chuckled. Irene pouted, but her eyes sparkled with amusement. John wasn't sure what her game was, but it was clear that she was playing with him.

"Nice try, Irene. I'm not jealous," he said simply.

"Such confidence, John. Suddenly secure enough in your relationship to stop the outraged denials? How very refreshing. What did I miss?"

"His 'radical action' of throwing himself off a building to keep me safe."

"Figured that out, did you?" she asked softly.

"Yeah. Sodding bastard. My life was not worth his."

"He apparently disagreed."

"He was an idiot."

She laughed, one hand pressed to her chest as if to contain her amusement. John topped off their wine glasses while Irene composed herself. She reached for her glass and lifted it in a salute.

"To your idiot and his radical actions."

John sipped his wine politely, not commenting on her toast. She smiled, setting her glass down and resting her arms on the table as she leaned forward.

"Why am I here, John?"

"Sherlock arranged this."

Irene stilled, eyes narrowing.

"How do you mean?" she asked.

"After Karachi, Sherlock indicated that we were unlikely to hear from you again. That was about the sum total of our discussions of the whole mess, but it was all that was needed. Life went on."

John paused, sipping his wine and watching Irene. Her expression showed interest, but also skepticism.

"Surely that's not all, John. You never discussed it?"

"Why would talking about it have been necessary?" John asked with a shrug. "He could deduce everything I did to get there and back. I knew how he got there, and that he got back. The rest is just ... details."

He willed himself to believe it, to ignore the tickle of curiosity at the base of his skull.

"It's really not," she said with a sad smile, though the look in her eye told John she'd seen some of his inner struggle. She continued a bit more brusquely, "Either way, it doesn't explain your assertion that Sherlock set up this little _tete-a-tete_ for us."

"Apparently, just after his return from Pakistan, Sherlock left a coded phone number in a box that I would only ever see after his death. The phone number led to you. That he left such a thing was a clear indication that he intended me to use it. I just don't know why. Why did he want me to find you? And why _now_, when he's gone?"

"I don't know."

"Even I can see through that lie. Try again, Irene."

"No, John. I _don't_ know. He got me to safety and disappeared. I didn't see or hear from him again. He never said anything to me about meeting you."

John studied her, trying to judge the truth of her statement.

"Yet you agreed to meet with me when I sent the text."

"'_Let's have dinner_'," she said with a smile. "How could I refuse?"

He snorted softly. He'd chosen that phrase specifically. It, more than the use of his initials at the end of his text, was what he'd counted on to confirm his identity to Irene. He'd not known if she was still alive, but had assumed that if she were, she'd be in hiding. And if she was in hiding, he was not sure that she'd break cover, even if she were convinced of his authenticity. Still, it was all he'd had. And it had been enough.

"You didn't hear from him again after he left you at the monastery?"

"Interesting detail for you to be aware of, having never discussed it with him," she said. "His idea of a joke, no doubt."

"A good one, too," John agreed. "Mycroft told me. He's listening now, you know."

"Of course he is. Ever the voyeur, Holmes the Elder," she purred. "Took him longer to find me than I expected."

"Doesn't seem to have ended badly for you."

"No. We seem to have reached a … mutually beneficial arrangement."

"I imagine it's along the lines of protection in exchange for information."

"Not all that different from arrangement I sought originally," Irene said.

"I'm quite certain that the current terms are far more beneficial to Britain's interests, and her Majesty's subjects, than what you had in mind," John replied.

"Ever the loyal soldier, Captain Watson, champion for Queen and country," Irene mocked lightly.

"Always," John agreed.

"Such high moral standards. How do you reconcile that with seven dead Taliban?"

"Ten," John corrected. "Perimeter guards. And I was protecting a British citizen."

"Two of them, actually."

"No," John replied amiably, giving her a tight smile. "Not really."

Irene leaned back in her chair, swirling the wine in her glass gently as she studied John.

"You really didn't discuss any of it? How we got away?"

"We really didn't."

"That'll be it, then."

"That'll be what?"

"Why he wanted you to find me. So that I could tell you the things he didn't," Irene said. "The things he couldn't."

"You can't know that."

"No, but I can deduce it. So can you, John. You already have, haven't you? You just don't want to hear it from me."

"If he didn't see fit to tell me, Irene, I'm quite happy to leave it alone," John replied.

"If I'm right, this is how he's telling you. And I am right, aren't I?"

John said nothing. He did not know why Sherlock had left him the means to contact Irene, and the reason she suggested was as good as any he could come up with.

"If you don't want to know, John, you should leave now, because I will tell you."

"Tell me, then."

"Her name was Nazir," Irene said, her voice catching slightly. "She died that night. I suppose the death that found her was kinder than the stoning the Taliban had planned for her," she pinned John with her gaze. "Sherlock shot her."

"Sherlock …? No," John said, shaking his head in denial.

"It was an accident," Irene continued, ignoring his interruption. "We were in the tunnels under the stadium. We had to pass the door to the locker rooms they were using as holding cells. There was a guard at the door. Sherlock managed to get close, and used the sword, but the guard gave a shout before he fell. Sherlock took his gun, and used it on the soldier that opened the door. When he went down, Nazir saw me. She ran toward me. Sherlock … Sherlock didn't know. Didn't realise that she was a friend, not a threat. He shouted at her, but she didn't stop, throwing herself at me."

"Oh, God," John breathed.

"The shot took her in the neck. He stopped just long enough to check for a pulse, but she was gone," Irene said soberly. "We didn't run into anyone else. He had a car in the parking lot. We went straight to the airport. He had tickets and passports arranged for a flight to Chengdu. The timing was tight. We arrived just twenty minutes before they began boarding. As soon as the flight landed, thirteen hours later, he had his phone out, texting – you, I assume. He flagged down a cab, came to some agreement with the cab driver, and we spent the next six hours driving to a Buddhist monastery in Garze. Sherlock spared all of twenty minutes to arrange my … accommodations. He handed me a cheap phone, told me the number was my life, and left without a backwards glance."

"And you never heard from him again?"

"Heard _of_ him, yes. From him? No."

John nodded, saying nothing as he brought a hand up to scrub at his forehead. He breathed deeply, reigning in his disappointment, not with Sherlock's actions, or the mistake he had made that led to Nazir's death, but with his unwillingness to share this information himself.

"Your opinion mattered to him, John. I think it might be the only one that did."

John huffed a laugh as he pulled his hand down, unsurprised at her ability to follow his train of thought.

"If he thought I'd be disappointed, he'd have been right. In myself, for not thinking that there were other prisoners, and other guards," John said, his voice filled with self recrimination. He shook his head and heaved a sigh. "Nazir. God, having to live with that ..."

"You couldn't protect him from everything, John."

John glared at her, hating that she was right.

"Why are you here, Irene?" he asked suddenly.

"I was under the impression that you invited me to dinner," she replied loftily.

"No, Irene," he said, shaking his head, his tone hard. "A real answer. I contacted you because he wanted me to, perhaps so that you could tell me about Nazir, but we'll never know for sure. You didn't have to respond – to agree – to meet me. Why did you?"

"I never heard from him again, John," she answered after a lengthy pause. "But I hear of him."

"Heard of him," John corrected.

"No."

John stared at her, and swallowed hard.

"Explain. Now."

"He's almost done, John. He'll be coming back soon, I think. Coming home."

"What are you …? Irene, you can't just … No. You're lying. I don't believe you. Why should I believe you?" he demanded.

"You saved my life," she said, pushing her chair back and standing. "I know that you didn't do it for me, but the result is the same. Big Brother – and Queen and country – will be extracting payment for my debt to you for the foreseeable future, but this … John, this is for you. He is alive, John. And very nearly done with his self-appointed task. He will be home soon."

"Task?" John asked, looking at her dazedly as she stepped closer to him, reaching out to cup his cheek and run her thumb lightly over the moustache on his lip.

"Jumping was only the first step in keeping you safe," she said, leaning forward to press a kiss on the corner of his mouth. "Thank you, John. Thank him for me, when you see him next," she whispered, her lip ghosting lightly over the end of his moustache.

John cleared his throat as she stepped back. He reached up to grab her wrist lightly, pulling her hand away from where it still toyed lightly with his moustache. He resisted the urge to scrub at his face – barely – and resolved to shave the offending facial hair as soon as he returned home.

"Not staying for dinner, then?" he asked tightly.

She laughed.

"As much as I do enjoy your company, John, I find myself not hungry," she answered, her hand slipping from his grasp as she stepped away.

John watched as she turned and walked away, out of the restaurant and into the night. He picked up his wineglass and drained the last of the straw-colored liquid, musing on her prediction.

Soon. He would be coming home soon.

John's mobile buzzed with an incoming text alert. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling it out and frowning briefly when he didn't recognise the number. He read the message anyway, and found himself grinning.

_Haiyan damage to local cell tower repaired, mobile coverage restored! Consider this your only warning. You WILL be receiving texts._

_I look forward to them -JW_

_You sign your texts?_

_Old habit -JW_

_Sherlock?_

_Yes, Sherlock. -JW_

_All right. -mm_

_Is it? -JW_

_It is. Skype at regular time on Tuesday? -mm_

_Absolutely. -JW_

_Good. Happy Valentine's day. -mm_

_It's not Valentine's day. -JW_

_It is here. -mm_

_You should be sleeping. -JW_

_Yes, dear. :) -mm_

_Happy Valentine's day, Mary. -JW_

_Thanks, John. Good night. -mm_

John smiled and tucked the phone away. He looked up, suddenly reminded that he was sitting at a table in a very posh restaurant. Picking up the menu, he decided that he was hungry after all. He waved the waiter over and ordered a ridiculously expensive steak dish with black and white truffles.

"Send the bill to Mycroft Holmes."

"Of course, sir," the waiter agreed.

John grinned.

* * *

**A/N: If you missed the backstory of John in Karachi, that is told in my story Double Bluff.**

**Two chapters to go!**


	19. Chapter 19: 21 and a half months After

**A/N: Hot cocoa for kate221b and Sevenpercent!**

**And, I did it again with not counting my months properly in the title for the previous chapter. It's now been corrected to 20.5 months After. Sorry for any confusion!**

* * *

Smiling at the mild ache in his muscles, John left the sandwich shop where he'd stopped for lunch after his morning a the gym. He'd run into Gregson there, the DI inviting him to spar after finding John warming up at the heavy bag. They'd traded friendly blows for half an hour, until Gregson had to go get showered and changed before heading in to the Yard. John had waved him off and headed over to spend the next forty-five minutes with the free weights. When he'd finished at the gym it had been nearly noon. A quick stop for lunch, and he was on his way to his next appointment of the day.

John slowed in surprise as he walked the path through the cemetery. The bench was occupied. It had been months since any of the Homeless Network had kept their vigil at Sherlock's grave during daylight hours. He thought possibly this was some other mourner, come to visit another grave, but as he approached he recognized her.

"Roisin," he said in greeting as he approached.

"Doctor Watson," she replied.

"If I'd known you were here, I'd have brought coffee," he said, apologetic.

"Nah, thanks. I'm good," she said, shifting over to make room on the bench.

"I didn't know any of you lot were still coming by during the day," John said, sitting down next to her.

"Yeah, well. Not so much for keeping an eye on things. Sometimes, just to visit, though," she said, shooting him a hesitant smile.

John smiled back at her before turning to look away, his gaze wandering over to the black marble slab that bore Sherlock's name.

"You won't be too angry with him, yeah?"

John stilled, fighting the urge to whip his head back around to face her.

"Not too angry," he said after a moment. "Not with you, either, nor any of the others who helped him."

"I'm glad to hear it," Roisin replied. "Wiggins was furious."

"He didn't know?" John asked, finally, slowly turning round.

Roisin was staring at her hands. She shook her head.

"Nah. He didn't know. Just me, and Frank, and Bear. They got him into Bart's, to your friend in the morgue. I got him out. And Paulie. He's the one knocked you over, with the bike."

"How did Wiggins find out?"

"Saw him."

"Saw …? When?"

"Two days back. Found me last night and demanded answers. Made him swear to keep it quiet, but I imagine he'll be looking for you, to tell you, in case you didn't know."

"Two days ..." John repeated, hardly hearing the rest of Roisin's words.

He stood, moving woodenly to stand in front of the headstone. He ran his hand lightly over the rough edge.

"Doctor Watson?" Roisin asked quietly, standing a few steps away.

"Thank you, Roisin. You and your mates," John said, looking up at her solemly. "Thank you."

She nodded a bit uncertainly. He flashed her a smile, tapped the headstone, and turned away, walking back out of the cemetery.

* * *

John needed to think. He needed to talk to Molly. Or Greg. Or even Mycroft. He needed to know if what Roisin said was true. He didn't doubt her, really, but he wanted confirmation.

Before he knew it, John found himself feeding his Oyster Card into the turn style at Kilburn station, waiting for the next Jublilee train heading south to Westminster. Boarding the next train, he took a seat toward the back of the carriage which allowed him to observe his fellow passengers.

Sherlock was somewhere in London.

There was a puzzle here.

Sherlock would not return to London unless it was safe to do so, or unless the work of cleaning up Moriarty's network brought him back. He had not revealed himself, so John assumed that this was not yet Sherlock's homecoming. There was still unfinished business with Moriarty's organization to be dealt with, then. That the remaining business was in London probably meant increased danger for John, and for Greg, Molly, and Mrs Hudson as well.

John realised that he could not go to Westminster, and on to Scotland Yard. Shouldn't do anything so out of the ordinary. Nothing that would draw extra attention to himself or his friends.

Standing, he moved toward the doors as the train slowed to a stop at Green Park Station. He considered walking to Piccadilly Circus to catch the Bakerloo line back to Baker Street, but decided that if anyone had eyes on him, that would be suspicious. He was rarely home during the daylight hours on his days off. When they fell on weekends, he often found himself visiting Harry and Clara. When, like today, he found himself off during the week, in good weather, he regularly found himself at a park, wandering the paths or sitting on a bench, enjoying the fresh air.

John felt more than a bit paranoid as he walked down Piccadilly Street in the direction of Hyde Park. It felt ridiculous to be making decisions about where to go in order to look normal based on the very unlikely chance that someone was watching. It wasn't about him, though, or looking ridiculous. It was about protecting Greg, and Molly, and Mrs Hudson. If he did anything that let on that he knew that Sherlock was alive – and back in London – they were all at risk.

He didn't mind looking ridiculous, if that's all it took to protect his friends. His family. Sherlock had done so much more.

John was lost in his thoughts, approaching the tangle of streets where Piccadilly became Knightsbridge. He waited for the signal to change and crossed Park Lane, heading to the corner entrance to Hyde Park.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," a woman exclaimed as a reedy voice cried out in alarm.

A young woman had apparently bumped into an elderly man, spilling his armload of books out onto the sidewalk. She was making hasty goodbyes on her mobile phone, her hand reaching out to be sure the old man was steady and unhurt.

"Should be watching where you're going," the old man railed at her, shaking his arm from her grasp. "You young people, always on your mobiles, never paying attention to your surroundings. Might have walked right into traffic instead of into me, and then where would you be?" he chastised, bending unsteadily to retrieve his fallen books.

John hurried to help, picking up two of the spilled books – smiling slightly when he saw that both were Agatha Christie mysteries – and holding them out to the old man. He reached out, wrapping his hand around the offered books without turning away from haranguing the young woman. Her expression was quickly morphing from apologetic to annoyed as the elderly man continued to berate her. She gave an exasperated huff and ducked around him, giving a polite nod to John as she hurried away. John watched her go, then turned to ask the old man if he was okay, only to find that he'd moved off as well. Glancing around, he saw the man moving down Park Lane, a limp marring his steady gait. John considered following him, just to be sure the limp hadn't been caused by the recent collision, but the wear pattern on the heels of the man's shoes indicated that it was a longstanding condition.

John shook his head, smiling ruefully at his habit of deducing such things. He made it three steps before he stopped, the smile wiped from his face.

He'd seen and observed the scuff patterns on the old man's shoes, joining the dots and coming to a conclusion quickly enough to perhaps even impress Sherlock. But he'd been wrong in his deduction, seeing what he was meant to see and nothing more. And he wouldn't have realised it, had it not been for the delayed understanding of what he'd seen, and _not_ observed, when the old man's hand had grasped the books John had held out for him.

Oh. _Oh_.

John glanced up, searching desperately for anything on which to focus in order to not turn and look behind him, searching the throngs of pedestrians for the elderly man and his Agatha Christie novels. A flash of reflected sunlight caught his attention.

On a street lamp across the street, a CCTV camera was repositioning itself, perhaps making a regular sweep of the area, or tracking the movement of a particular vehicle. Or person.

A second camera, mounted on the same post, was stationary, its target fixed.

John stared directly into the eye of the second camera. He cocked his head slightly, then smiled and looked away, forcing himself to start moving again. Stopping at a street vendor, he bought a cup of coffee and a newspaper, and walked into the park.

He strolled deep into the park, finally stopping at a bench on the southwest end of the Serpentine. Taking a sip of the coffee, John unfurled his newspaper and began searching.

Something had brought Sherlock back to London. Something recent. Something that had occurred on, or around, Park Lane. John scoured the newspaper, reading every word, and found nothing. He sighed, folding the newspaper back up and setting it next to him on the bench. If he wanted to know, he was going to have to ask.

He picked up his coffee and took a sip, grimacing as he found it to have gone cold. Looking around, John realised that the light had faded, the sun nearly set. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just gone four. He pulled his phone from his pocket, sending off a quick text as the lamps in the park began flickering on.

_Tattersalls. Now. Or sooner, if convenient -JW_

_You're in luck, mate. MI5 just swiped my case. It's their headache now. Leaves me free to meet you for a pint. Or three. 15 minutes? -GL_

_See you then. -JW_

John tucked the newspaper under his arm, tossed the cup in a nearby bin, and started walking south through the park. He crossed Carriage Drive and began walking steadily down Park Close, arriving at Knightsbridge Green a few minutes later. Entering the pub, he ordered two pints and moved to an empty table in the middle of the room to wait for Greg.

He didn't have to wait long. Greg smiled broadly as he slid into the chair and picked up his beer. He nodded his thanks and took a deep pull, groaning a bit when he put the glass on the table.

"Oh, God. That's better."

"That bad, is it?" John asked with a smile. "Nothing in the paper appears truly headache worthy," he said, indicating the newspaper on the table.

"Yeah, well. Higher ups are keeping this quiet. Victim was an 'Honorable' with diplomatic ties in his family. MI5 has apparently decided to investigate it as a domestic assassination rather than your garden variety murder."

"Domestic assassination," John mused. "Local, if you and the Met were involved at all before MI5 took over. Was it somewhere along Park Lane, by any chance?"

Greg stilled, his lips just touching his glass, about to tilt back for a draught. He caught John's gaze, followed through on the interrupted motion of taking a drink, and put the glass down, not breaking eye contact.

"That's not something you should know, John."

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking. Something happened there, probably in the last couple days, but there's nothing about it in the paper. Nothing about your 'Honorable' in there, either. I put two and two together, and I'm betting that I didn't get five."

John met Greg's scrutiny resolutely.

"You haven't made five," Greg said eventually.

"His 'diplomatic ties' aren't strong, are they?"

"His uncle is attached to the High Commission to Australia."

"And MI5 took it over?"

"That's what the paperwork said. Something felt a bit off about the whole thing, but Vaughn wants to be seen as willing to work with other agencies where jurisdictions collide. In this case, they demanded we turn the whole thing over, and he agreed," Greg said, frowning. Then he sighed and shrugged. "They've got resources. They'll figure it out."

He shot John a look.

"What I'd like to figure out is how you knew where and when it happened."

"I had word from the Homeless Network," John replied. He cringed inwardly, knowing that while he was telling Greg _a_ truth, he wasn't telling him _the_ truth. He kept his face impassive.

After a moment Greg chuckled.

"You're trying too hard, mate," he said, pointing a finger at John.

"I don't know what you mean," John said, his mouth quirking slightly, unable to stop the flash of relief that came with being caught out.

"Why this case? You haven't asked about cases in ages, and then you ask about one that's been poached by MI5 ..."

"I don't know," John replied. "I only knew that there was a case. Not more than a couple days old, and likely to have occurred on or around Park Lane. That Mycroft has stuck his finger in the pie just confirms that this is the right one."

"Mycroft?"

"You don't think it's really MI5, do you? The nephew of a diplomat in the Australian High Commissioner's office? Younger son of a peer of the realm or no, his murder is just that – murder, not an assassination," John shook his head. "I don't know why it's this case, only that it is. What can you tell me about it?"

Greg sighed.

"John, it's an ongoing investigation, and not just no longer my case, it's not my department, nor even my bloody jurisdiction."

"Greg," John began, then paused, considering his request carefully. "Murder comes in many forms. I'm going to bet your victim died of a gunshot wound. Long range, high velocity round."

Greg's response was a curt nod.

"A sniper, then. In London," John mused. "When they find him, will they inform you? I know it's not your case anymore, but there must be some sort of professional courtesy there, right? Letting you know when they wrap it up?"

"It's been known to happen," Greg agreed. "Though it's often just a phone call to advise us to watch the press conference due to start five minutes later."

"If they let you know, Greg, even if it's just five minutes notice, will you tell me? I'd like – I need to not hear about this from the news. A heads-up would be appreciated."

"This is about him, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I think it is."

"As soon as I hear anything, I'll let you know," Greg promised.

John nodded his thanks, picked up his pint and took a long pull. When he put it down, he grinned.

"So … how's Molly coming with the wedding plans?"


	20. Chapter 20: 22 Months After

**A/N: Ginger biscuits for kate221b, Sevenpercent, and Whooligani!**

* * *

John had just poured water over his teabag when he heard the front door open and slam shut. Mrs. Hudson never slammed the door. Everyone else always rang the bell. This was it, then.  
John pulled a second mug down from the cupboard and prepared a second cup of tea. He rotated the cup so that the handle faced the sitting room but didn't look up as he heard the door to the flat open.  
"Took you long enough, you bastard," he said amiably as he lifted his own mug to his lips.  
There was no reply save for a slight scraping sound as the second mug slid slightly across the worktop.  
"Two bloody years, Sherlock."  
"One year, ten months, one day, nine hours, four and a half minutes."  
"Yeah, I missed you, too. Pedantic twat," John snorted. "You're two days late."  
He turned, finally, to face his not-dead best friend.  
"John."  
Sherlock looked tired. A bit thinner. A few new lines creased his face around his eyes, and near his mouth. John could see tension in the way the other man held himself that spoke loudly of unseen injuries. And … uncertainty. John smiled.  
"Christ, it's good to see you. Greg was right, though my desire to hit you outweighs my desire to kiss you. Headline rather than subtext."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a churlish huff. "Are those the only options?" he asked.  
John did not let his smile slip, but he could feel it tightening. He glanced away from Sherlock and carefully put his mug on the worktop. He took a deep breath before looking back, holding Sherlock's gaze.  
"I'll leave the kissing to Greg," John said evenly.  
He felt Sherlock tense, watching as the other man shifted his weight, leaning ever-so-slighty forward. Sherlock was clearly braced for impact, expecting John's right hook.  
His open hand caught Sherlock across the right cheek. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise. Tea sloshed over the rim of his mug. John sighed, shaking his stinging hand. He turned and grabbed a towel, tossing it on the floor to soak up the spill, then opened the freezer for a bag of frozen peas.  
"If you ever pull another stunt like that ..." he began, voice shaking with anger as he thrust the peas into Sherlock's chest. He stopped, clearing his throat, and moved away, leaning against the counter to steady himself, "I don't think I could forgive you."  
"I was not aware that I needed forgiving," Sherlock said, hissing a bit as he pressed the cold bag against his face  
"Yes you were," John replied. "You knew it before you jumped."  
"So, am I forgiven, then?" Sherlock asked, his tone vaguely mocking, but his eyes were tight with tension.  
"Do you need my forgiveness?"  
"Of course not. It was the only possible option, though I would like to know that I have your understanding at least."  
"I understand some of it," John replied. "That does not mean that I approve of your actions."  
Sherlock scowled.  
"And, in case you wondered, I already have. Forgiven you. In theory, at least – months ago," John said with a weary sigh, retrieving his mug and sipping at his tea before continuing. "Have to see how it works out in practice."  
"Why?"  
"Why, what?"  
"Why would you forgive me, John? I … lied to you. Why would you want to?"  
"Why would I want to? Sherlock," John paused, momentarily at a loss at the though of explaining _sentiment_ to Sherlock. "Unless I am very much mistaken, you threw yourself off a building to save my before I forget to say it, thank you."  
He smiled slightly at the look of shock on Sherlock's face.  
"You're thanking me ..."  
"For saving my life, yes."  
"You're welcome," Sherlock said, uncertainly, then continued. "John, I _am_ sorry."  
"I know you are, Sherlock. And I know you'd do it again, even knowing the pain it would cause those who care about you."  
"I would," Sherlock agreed, quietly, vehemently.  
"Will you tell me?" John asked.  
"Everything," Sherlock agreed, then cocked his head. "Will you tell me?"  
"Tell you what?"  
"How you saw through it? How you knew to expect me? Why you said I was two days late?"  
John turned away to open a cupboard, grabbing a bottle of scotch and a pair of tumblers. This conversation needed something stronger than tea. He stepped into Sherlock's space, causing the other man to step back into the sitting room. John moved to sit in his armchair, waiting until Sherlock sat opposite him before handing him one of the empty glasses. Pulling the cork from the bottle, he poured a measure into each glass, stoppered the bottle and set it aside. Sitting back, he sipped his whiskey, then cleared his throat.  
"How did I see through it? I didn't, at first. Took six months, and the help of some truly lovely narcotics," John replied. Catching Sherlock's concerned expression, he continued, "I got myself mugged. Walked right into it like a bloody idiot. Nothing serious, thanks to Raz," he smiled at Sherlock's surprised look. "Ended up in hospital on morphine for a few days."  
He paused, taking another drink and grimacing slightly at the burn of the alcohol before continuing.  
"Being … disconnected from the pain," he paused, looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes, "the emotional as well as the physical, I was able to think – really _think_ – about what I'd seen that day. And the days before, leading up to it all. What was there. What was missing. I was able to join up the dots. Well, some of them. Enough of them. Molly, and then Mycroft, confirmed it. Mycroft was concerned that I had worked it out. He had doubts about my acting abilities. I hope you had none – you have good reason to know how well I can hide things that should be hidden."  
"I did not doubt your ability to act, John, though it continues to surprise me."  
"Good. On both counts. I think."  
Sherlock huffed out a laugh and put the bag of frozen peas down, running his hand lightly over his cheek to wipe away the wetness. John felt a tickle of guilt at the sight of the red handprint on his friend's face.  
"Don't."  
"Right," John responded. "Mycroft would only confirm that you were alive, and that you had a plan that included returning. He couldn't say when."  
"He didn't know," Sherlock replied. "I didn't think it would take so long," he admitted, sipping his whiskey.  
John nodded, then, gesturing to his own glass, contined, "It wasn't until Greg and I were getting into our cups a couple months after the anniversary … Well. We got to thinking about your motivations for it, him imagining that you'd faked it, me knowing that you had. I knew there had to have been a reason for what you'd done, but couldn't work out what it was. Greg's the one who figured out what Moriarty must have used to push you to do it, though he overlooked the possibility that he played a part in your reasoning," John shook his head, his lips crooked into an exasperated smile. "After we worked it all out, I hinted that it was more truth than fantasy. I knew it was dangerous to confirm it, but I didn't want him to be too upset with Molly ..."  
"I did not anticipate their relationship," Sherlock said, smiling and gesturing to the wedding invitation on the mantle.  
"Neither did they," John laughed. "But there it is. And I needed to be sure that the secret she was keeping for you wouldn't be the end of them."  
"It clearly wasn't."  
"No. I'm glad you're back in time for the wedding."  
"I haven't been invited."  
"It's hard to send an invitation to a dead man," John pointed out.  
"Molly knew I was alive."  
"So did Greg, these last eight months or so," John replied. "Doesn't mean they could post you anything. You know you'll be expected, though."  
"Dull," Sherlock replied, but John could hear the relief in the other man's tone.  
"You're going, and you will be pleasant, and you will dance with the bride."  
Sherlock grunted, but he did not disagree. John smirked. They sat in silence for a few moments, drinking their whiskey and enjoying the relaxed air of the flat. After a moment, John shifted in his chair, then kicked his leg out, striking Sherlock squarely in the shin.  
"For Molly," he said at Sherlock's look of surprised indignation. "The position you put her in, even before she and Greg got involved … bit not good, Sherlock."  
Sherlock nodded. John settled back in his chair. The ease of the moment had gone.  
"You didn't tell me – lied to me, in fact – not because you doubted my ability to play the part of a grieving friend," John said slowly. "It was because you knew I'd insist on coming with you."  
"Or follow along after. You do have a history of showing up where I least expect and most need you."  
"Is that why you said those things? In your 'note'? About being a fake?" John's tone was hard. He could see the flinch in the tightening of Sherlock's eyes.  
"If you believed it – believed that I had taken you in and made a fool of you – you would hate me, and wouldn't look too closely at the suicide. You wouldn't want to follow me."  
"But I didn't believe it."  
"I know. I didn't think you would – I hoped you wouldn't, but I needed you to. I had to try," Sherlock admitted. "I couldn't let you follow me."  
"Why not?"  
"If you disappeared, too, it would have raised suspicions that I was alive. Moriarty knew us, John. He would have anticipated that I would try to fake my death. What he didn't realize is that I wouldn't let you in on the plan. That I would cause you pain to keep you alive. He would have assumed that if I survived, you would be aware of it, and you would be with me. In order to persuade them that I was truly dead, you had to stay," Sherlock explained. He looked both pained and gratified when he added, "You would not have stayed, if you knew."  
John was silent while he mulled this over.  
"No, I wouldn't have" he said.

"Even knowing that Mrs Hudson's and Lestrade's lives depended on you staying and convincing the world that I was dead?"

John felt acutely, intensely guilty at the fact that he didn't even have to think before answering.

"Even knowing that, I would not have let you go alone," he said firmly, "If I had any idea where you were when I learned you were alive, I would have followed. The trail gone six months cold, it was unlikely that I could have tracked you down. But I couldn't even look. Doing so would have alerting anyone watching to your continued existence. I had no choice but to stay, and worry."

"I know," Sherlock agreed.  
Silence fell again, though it was considerably less comfortable than the last.  
"You were expecting me," Sherlock said, breaking the silence. "How?"  
"I met a friend of yours for dinner," John answered. "She thanked me for my part in a favor you did on her behalf. Then she told me she hadn't heard from you, but had heard rumors about you. Thought that it wouldn't be long before you returned."  
"You had _dinner_ with her?"  
John nearly laughed aloud at the grimace of disgust on Sherlock's face.  
"I wasn't hungry. We didn't eat together, either. After she left I did order something, though. Most expensive thing on the menu. Charged it to Mycroft."  
Sherlock's expression eased and he chuckled lightly.  
"How did you contact her?"  
"You left me a way. Didn't hear it played for months, but when I did, I knew something was changed in the music. Took weeks to figure out that the notes were numbers. A mobile number. In a piece of music you wrote for her and titled 'Tea'."  
"Not _for_ her," Sherlock muttered.  
"About her then," John said. "And 'Tea'? Really? Posh git. Can't call it 'dinner' like everyone else? I only managed to get in touch with her a few weeks ago."  
"She could not have provided you with any real information about my return," Sherlock said. "But you were prepared for my arrival. Only Mycroft knew I was back in London. He didn't tell you?"  
"My great-grandfather told me," John replied.  
"Your great-grandfather?" Sherlock was obviously puzzled.  
"You didn't know, did you? Who it belonged to?" John said, reaching across to prize one of Sherlock's hands free from where they were wrapped around his whiskey. He held the Sherlock's hand in his own, thumb ghosting over the ring on his small finger, a silver band set with a cairngorm.  
"John, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have …"  
"Sherlock. I could write _pages_ of things you shouldn't do. Enough to fill a book. Page one would say that you should, under no circumstances, throw yourself off a building. Nor should you leave me behind. Ever," John said trying for a smile. He took a breath, sighed heavily while shaking his head, his smile coming more easily as he continued, "Taking this? Wouldn't even be a footnote."  
"You can have it back, now, of course. I don't … I don't need it anymore," Sherlock said, putting down his glass and moving to take the ring from his finger.  
"No. Unless you want yours back?" John asked, reaching into his pocket.  
Sherlock watched as he drew the keys out and showed him the signet ring he used as a key fob.  
"I would have worn it, I think. But hospital policy only barely permits doctors to wear wedding rings ..." John stopped, then started giggling.  
"A ring exchange, John?" Sherlock asked, amusement in his voice.  
"I suppose so," John answered, smiling.  
"Aren't there also supposed to be grand gestures and sweeping promises?"  
"I think you've managed the grand gesture already, Sherlock," John said, amusement fading, though his smile remained. "And I know better than to ask for promises you can't keep."  
"Promises I can't keep?" Sherlock said, offended.  
"I'm sure you'd mean any promise you made," John replied. "But if you felt that keeping your word in any way jeopardized the health or safety of your family, you'd break it without a second thought, and feel no guilt for having done so."  
Sherlock's face screwed up in a scowl. "Mycroft ..."  
"Not Mycroft, you git, though he is family, too. No escaping that," John said ruefully. "I meant the family you chose."  
John huffed out a sigh at Sherlock's puzzled look.  
"Look, Sherlock, I've got Harry, right? But I've also got Mrs Hudson, and Greg and Molly. And you. You are my family, Sherlock. You are the family I chose. And if I had to decide between keeping a promise, or keeping any of you safe, I'd break my promise, too. So, no. No sweeping promises," John said, smiling. "Keep it. Wear it. It's … yours."  
"I … see," Sherlock said, hesitantly. "Thank you. Will you keep the other?"  
"Do you want it back?"  
"No. This is … good. Fine."  
"It's all fine," John said, his laughter bubbling up again.  
Sherlock began to chuckle.  
"When did you know that I had taken it?"  
"I didn't," John answered. "I knew it was gone a few days after … I figured it was lost during the Yard's search of the flat. Though they had dumped the box out and it must have rolled away unnoticed. It upset me the night I discovered it was missing, but I don't think I'd thought of it since then, until I saw it on your hand last week. I would never have known it was you, otherwise. Your disguises are bloody fantastic."  
"The books," Sherlock mused.  
"The books," John agreed. "Agatha Christie? Really?" John laughed. "You were so busy berating the woman who bumped you that you didn't look around to see me."  
"I saw you, John. That's why I didn't turn around."  
"Ah. Did you forget, then? That you were wearing the ring? Or did you mean for me to see it when you reached out to take back the books?"  
"No, I didn't intend for you to see it."  
"There's always something."  
"Indeed."  
"You moved off so quickly that I barely had time to recognize what I'd seen. When I realized it was my great-grandfather's ring, I knew that it had been taken, not lost. Taken by you. The CCTV cameras confirmed it."  
"The cameras?"  
"Across the street. There was a lamp post with two cameras mounted at the top. One of them was aimed at me. The other was tracking you. There was only one reason the cameras would be tracking a man wearing my great-grandfather's ring."  
"So, you knew a week ago that I was back in London. Surely you weren't standing about the kitchen waiting to make tea since then?"  
"No," John agreed. "I realized that if you were back in London but hadn't revealed yourself, you were still working to take down Moriarty's web. So, you were tracking someone. You were on Park Lane for a reason, but there was nothing in the paper about anything happening in the area. Greg mentioned that he'd had a case poached by MI5 – some younger son with tenuous diplomatic ties got himself shot by a sniper."  
"Ronald Adair," Sherlock agreed.  
"I got a text from Greg when the case wrapped up. Saw the report on the news. The sniper was cornered in an empty house, apparently waiting for his next target to return home, when he was killed in the police raid on his location," John continued, looking up from his glass and holding Sherlock's eyes. "There was police action just a block away from Baker Street, the day that happened. I missed it. Some trouble on the Tube. St Paul's station was closed."  
Sherlock tsked but didn't say anything.  
"Barbican station, as well. Made it bloody hard to get home from my shift at Bart's."  
"Public transportation," Sherlock mocked, taking a sip of his whiskey.  
"That was two days ago, Sherlock."  
Sherlock dropped his eyes, focusing on the glass in his hands.  
"His name was Sebastian Moran," he said eventually.  
"The sniper?"  
"_Your_ sniper," Sherlock answered. "The last strand in the web. I killed him."  
"And the others?" John asked.  
"The gunmen on Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, yes. The rest I set up to take each other out, or gave to Mycroft."  
"I see."  
"I will lose no sleep over killing them, John."  
"No," John agreed.  
They sat in silence for a moment.  
"So, what kept you, then?" John asked.  
"I didn't know."  
"Sorry?"  
"I didn't know how to come back. I've worked toward this moment for nearly two years, John, but when the time came, I didn't know how to tell you," Sherlock explained, "Mycroft kicked me out this morning. Told me to stop dithering, said that you knew, and that I needed to 'get on with it'."  
"You should probably thank your brother," John said mildly.  
"Whatever for?" Sherlock said in distaste.  
"Making you deal with this today. If you'd showed up tomorrow, I don't think I could have stopped myself from breaking your nose."  
"What's so special about tomorrow?"  
"Tomorrow is the first of April, Sherlock."  
Sherlock's expression remained blank. John could see that he was waiting for further information.  
"April Fool's Day, Sherlock. Where people are expected to pull pranks on each other?"  
"Hmm. Must have deleted it."  
"Just … thank Mycroft, yeah? He would have known about the tradition, and known that I wouldn't take it well for you to time your return just then."  
"The pranks start tomorrow?" Sherlock asked, setting his glass down and reaching into his pocket to withdraw his phone.  
"Yes," John replied, watching as Sherlock began typing furiously.  
"Best do this now, then," Sherlock said.  
"What are you doing?"

"Sending a text."

"To whom?"

"Everyone."

"What, really?" John asked. "You can do that?"

"Child's play," Sherlock replied, smirking.

"Wait, what are you sending?" John asked suddenly, eyes widening. "You are _not_ sending out the announcement of your return via text, Sherlock!"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"Aren't there … I don't know … official channels or something?" John asked, scrambling to reach his own phone.

"Mycroft has that all in hand. Official notification of my deep cover operation to take down Moriarty's network will be released at midnight, tomorrow. I imagine that there will be a rather tedious press conference sometime the following day. I expect that the delay is due to the April Fool's nonsense you mentioned."

"And you're upstaging your brother's announcement with a text? Sherlock ..." John remonstrated, his fingers flying over the keys on his phone.

_221b. Now. - JW_

"It's not the first of April yet, might as well tell the world now," Sherlock replied, then glanced up at John. "What are you doing?"

"Did it occur to you that there might be some people you might want to tell in person?"

"Of course. I'm here, aren't I?"

John chuckled.

"Sherlock … I meant people besides me. Perhaps the other people for whom you swanned off Bart's roof? Or maybe the woman who assisted you in your escape? You know, your friends?"

"I don't – " Sherlock began.

"Sherlock, I swear, if you finish that sentence with the words 'have friends', you will get that broken nose, regardless of the date," he meant the words to be humorous, but found more anger creeping into his tone than he'd expected.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, but his countenance grew tense. The expression slipped away quickly, a blank mask falling into place as Sherlock sniffed slightly, chin coming up. John cocked his head slightly, inviting Sherlock to respond.

"I was merely going to say that I don't believe that my friends – my _family_ – would be surprised by the format of my announcement," he paused, a twitch of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "It is very me," he said, pushing the button on his phone that sent the message.

John let out a bark of laughter as his phone sounded with a text alert. He became aware of the wail of a siren approaching as glanced at the screen.

_Sherlock Lives._

"Yes, it is. It most certainly is very you," John agreed. "Nevertheless, Molly and Greg will have gotten my message and have some forewarning. Mrs Hudson, though … she doesn't have a mobile. She won't have gotten your text."

"She doesn't need to. She heard me come in, and she knows my tread on the stairs as well as you do. I rather expect her to be arriving in a moment or two. Or don't you smell the ginger biscuits coming out of the oven?"

"So, what? She heard the door slam, heard your tread on the stairs, and that's it? She makes your favorite biscuits?"

"I imagine the slap that accompanies the biscuits will be every bit as stinging as the one you delivered," Sherlock replied.

"Probably more," John agreed.

The howl of the approaching siren grew louder, then stopped abruptly. John heard the door downstairs open and close, and the sound of agitated voices in the entryway, followed by the creak of the stairs. The scent of ginger biscuits grew stronger.

Sherlock finished his whiskey and stood, setting his glass aside and smoothing his jacket. He glanced over to John. John read the question in Sherlock's gaze and gave him a tight nod.

"Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?" Mrs Hudson asked from the doorway.

"What was necessary, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock replied.

"Of course, dear," Mrs Hudson replied, placing the plate of biscuits on the desk and turning to face Sherlock, her hand already darting out.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels, his head snapping to the side with the force of her slap.

"Definitely more," he said as he accepted the slightly soggy, somewhat-less-frozen bag of peas John was already holding out to him.

John smiled, watching as Mrs Hudson wrapped her arms around Sherlock and hugged him to her. Sherlock's free arm held her just as tightly. Over her head, Sherlock was nodding a greeting to a teary-eyed but smiling Molly, and a grinning Greg. John cleared his throat, causing all eyes to turn to him.

"Welcome home, Sherlock."

* * *

**A/N: Whew! Made it to the reunion before the UK premier. There are a few weeks left before it'll be on in the US, and it'll be at least a week or two after THAT before I can see S3. Which means that I can put on my blinkers and wear ear plugs and continue with a few other, small stories in this universe. It'll be AU before it's written, but I won't *know* that ... :)**

**I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Thanks so much!**


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